


Sanctuary Under Shadow

by Gloromeien



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 105,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloromeien/pseuds/Gloromeien
Summary: At an age when discovery still abounded, when dread of the Shadow’s threat had not yet resigned them to an absent, loveless warrior’s existence, the princes of Mirkwood and of Imladris dared to surrender their innocence to the precariousness of fate.





	1. Chapter 1

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part One 

Imladris, Year 216, Third Age

When the eloquent, resounding horn echoed through the valley wilds, the Lord of Imladris rose from his writing desk in an elegant swish, then glided majestically over to the window. In typical stealthy, Silvan fashion, the Greenwood delegation had tarried on the outskirts of the region until Anor was but a gleam beneath the horizon. Under the shroud of dusk, they had skirted the mountain pass; signaling Glorfindel’s sentinels with the sharp refraction of emergent moonlight on a shield, the last embers of twilight like filmy vapors over the topline of trees. They would stalk, like fleet-footed phantoms, through the lush forest dark, askance of the formal path until steps from the gates, when they would have no choice but to face the guard.

The muffled clap of a hastily shut book sounded behind him; the air veritably bristled with barely restrained excitement. With a casual glance over his shoulder, Elrond beckoned forth his normally gracious son, Elrohir, who swooped over to his side as if on the wings of eagles and perched on the window seat as if testing the wind before he took glorious flight. Seven crowns of luminous golden locks formed an arrowhead constellation beyond the gates of the Last Homely House, as if a set of stars had fallen from the canopy above to light their midnight valley. Mere moments before, the road had been an endless black, when seven cloaked figures had wafted in from the obscurity of the forest deep. The surprise of such radiance, upon the leavening of hoods, must have so addled the rote minds of the guards that they had been rendered witless, for what else could explain the near-embarrassing delay before the spectral delegation was escorted up the winding path that led to the inner courtyard? 

Elrohir did his best to maintain a stance of poise, reserve, when every instinct within compelled him to race down to the entranceway and burst through the front doors, with all the boundless glee of an elfling welcoming his parents home from some officious visit. That his son waited so anxiously upon his word moved Elrond, such that he gave in to his tender urges towards the most intuitive and independent of his children. He swept an affectionate stroke down the silken length of his ebony hair, not yet of the velvety texture of full majority, but not as flimsy as an elfling’s frail locks. Though he had begotten two beings of breathtaking similarity, the second pair in a line of peredhil twins, each son was his own diverse, complex personality. Brash, impetuous, and intensely gallant Elladan had cottoned to his mother’s gentle ways, her warmth balmed his bruises, both adventuresome and accidentally self-inflicted. Elrohir, at first, seemed to be Elladan’s more passive reflection, his manner keen, pensive, and somewhat insecure. Yet of the two, Elrohir was his father’s pet, intrigued by the mire of government and by the mysteries of the healing arts.

Both currently floated in that amorphous half-century between first and second majorities, a ripening time of discovery, maturation, over-exaggerated trials and blundering errors. Elladan engaged every challenge in his path with wildfire spirit, which resulted in some laurelled triumphs, as well as a considerable amount of emotional carnage. Elrohir, however, was more patient in his assays; he tested the waters, waded into the pool, then, once acclimated to the cool temperature, immersed himself so completely he would drown as often as swim. Both required steady vigilance from their equally stunned and elated parents, who could not fathom how their Greenwood rivals managed seven sons, with not five hundred years from first to last. 

Twas the early, unexpected birth of his twins seventy-seven years ago, amidst a tense family reunion in the newly established region of Lothlorien, that had forged the first, feeble and beleaguered link between Greenwood and Imladris. To Elrond’s continued admiration and Thranduil’s ever-lingering consternation, their cunning wives had brokered a fractious peace while Celebrian was in her labor throes. The newborn colony housed Galadriel’s throng of loyal archers, nary a midwife among them. Ethereal, effortlessly giving Laurelith could not deny her service to a lady fraught by her first child-labor, not when she had already begotten six golden sons for her imperious husband. Even Thranduil, in a Valar-blessed moment of benevolence, had conceded to calm a imminent father’s frettings, a strange turn of fate that, along with startling evidence of the Shadow’s outstretching reach into their lands, had opened initial negotiations. 

Seventy-odd years on, Laurelith’s blithe influence over her raptly-devoted mate had produced a treaty between their realms, the ratification of which was one purpose of the delegation’s appointment there, as well as engendered an astonishingly pure friendship between their youngest sons. Indeed, though Elrond still had little taste for Thranduil’s stingy, arrogant ways, the effluent adoration the Greenwood king lavished upon his spouse was one of the sole commendations the peredhel Lord could accord him; for all intents, it was the essence of their alliance. Elrond had also come to sympathize with the plight of his treasure trove of sons, who suffered mightily under his puritan rule. Their soldierly lessons were branded into their very souls, their iron wills forged under relentless fire and their trenchant skills scraped deadly on the wheel-stone. 

For the issue of such a vainglorious monarch as Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Greenwood enclave, the young princes were scrubbed clean of the reek of regal pomposity by their arduous training, preferring a warrior’s prudence to entitlement’s opulent displays. Though the Sinda king could not long divorce himself from the trappings of his inherited - yet still relatively impotent and historically self-imposed - rank, one could not long mistake him for a fool. The resplendent vales of Greenwood the Great became more dismal by the decade, its friendly, fertile woods desiccated by arachnid infestation, its verdure overcast by murk and haze, its elemental people threatened by brigands, orcs, and creatures of Melkor’s vile ilk. 

Only the most battle-weary army of their age could survive the endless onslaught of the Shadow’s wrath, so leonine Thranduil had bred himself a voracious pride of cubs, depriving them of nobility’s indulgences while sharpening their claws for lifelong combat. The result might have been ridiculed amoung the more ancient lines of elfkind for its brutishness if not for Laurelith’s meticulous nurture of her brood of sons. Under her generous influence, the Greenwood princes had grown into a humble, hardy group of elves, not terribly sociable, but knowing when kindness was wanted. They enjoyed simple elven pleasures, such as the thrall of the natural world, the support of a well-bred steed, or a round of sparring on the training fields. Excepting their reluctance towards book-learning, they had easily fallen into step with the rhythm of Imladris. Thranduil had sent each, in turn, for a stay, so that their swordsmanship might be perfected under the tutelage of hallowed Glorfindel, another of Laurelith’s pointed and practical suggestions to benefit her dear sons. 

Indeed, Thranduil so relied on her good counsel that the completion of his set came about after a dream of hers. Laurelith had envisioned a last, most beatific son, whose incredible destiny would see him represent the elven race in a final quest against the Shadow. Tempted by the grandeur of her dream, as well as the promise of a champion bred from the Sinda line, they begot their youngest child, a starlit babe named in tribute to the fading verdure of Greenwood. Legolas was a Silvan pearl; a child of such light, sweetness, and merriment, he entranced his every acquaintance. Elladan and Elrohir had been no less taken with him; their instantaneous complicity knit the moment of their first encounter, some fifty years hence, upon a family journey to Greenwood for the earliest deliberations between their realms. 

This mercurial child had brought out the tightly-kept mischievous streak in his staid Elrohir. Little wonder his son fidgeted like a servant awaiting punishment beside him, desperate to barrel down to the courtyard and to tumble his friend in heartfelt greeting. Yet his silver eyes were rapt on the incandescent Greenwood company as it ascended the gentle slope to the main hall, the riders glowing ghostly under the diaphanous, moonlit rays. Their gilded graces ever bedazzled him; the flaxen hair, ivory skin, and sinuous frames all too alluring to one used to the swarthy beauties about his own valley. Only when Elrohir regarded the Sinda sons so worshipfully did Elrond ever have care to observe even the barest trace of desire within his softer son, who he too-well knew remained studiously chaste in emphatic opposition to his twin’s too-casually chosen wantonness. 

Whereas Elladan gorged himself nightly on the feast of lissome maids and limber lads about this sanctuary realm, Elrohir had perhaps waited too long on loving indulgence. Elrond was only too glad of Legolas’ timely advent, for in the past few years Elrohir had become even more withdrawn, cerebral and alienating to his peers, his rampant insecurities glaring to any who might dare approach him. Both noble parents had begun to fret over their son’s emotional evolution; though hardly an heir, he, too, must one day take on the mantle of Imladris’ representation abroad. One as rambunctious as Legolas would, thankfully, never allow his friend to wallow about the library when there were glades to gambol through, which, Elrond hoped, could only lead to more impassioned explorations, wither with maid or male. 

The Lord well understood why it took six broad-sworded brothers to accompany one single archer, of impressive skill, along the oft-traveled and well-protected road to Imladris. Though his strictures reigned in Greenwood, Thranduil was not so besotted by his own power as to forget the needs of strapping young elves. While such dalliances were forbidden within the realm, for reputation’s sake if naught else, a frolic in festive Rivendell would hopefully sate his sons of their more lecherous desires and return them in fresh, fighting form. As he could never earnestly approve of their proclivities, the tyrant left it to Elrond to warn them away from fruitless attachments and steer them towards the renown anonymity of the Baths of Imladris, though he could hardly do so in an outright manner. 

He had already had a strong word with Elladan as to the proper nature of friendship with the Greenwood princes, but this had been useless in the end, as he had learned that inter-ellon relations were absolutely unconscionable under the king’s rule and any caught out at such affairs was banished straightaway. He dared not closely consider how Elladan had come to know of such custom, but reasoned that, as each prince had been betrothed to some elven lady before the very hour of their birth, some colossal measures must have been undertaken to ensure their compliance with these future bonds. Elladan had also apprised him of a few rumors buzzing about the nomadic men-folk that bartered trade between the realms; namely that the fifth-born prince, Lathron, was caught embracing the son of a tradesman, which had precipitated the advancement of the date of their departure. Elrond had instantly recalled the rigid tone of the writ Thranduil had sent him, announcing their plans to come a whole decade earlier and quickly agreeing to some of the stickier points of their treaty. Elladan had told him that Lathron had been instructed to find some voluptuous maiden and rid himself of this sickening condition, by none other than the king himself. 

Elrond, as a result, only swelled with an even greater abundance of sympathy for the Greenwood princes, vowing to regularly invite them to summer festivals, in future years of relative calm. 

“Are they not astonishing, Ada?” his son nearly gasped, still reverent on the Greenwood company. Elrohir’s tippling tone broke into his musing mind, reminded him of his son’s eagerness to be away. 

“Go, and greet them warmly,” Elrond instructed. “I’ve no doubt your brother is already waiting atop the steps. Guide each of the princes to their bedchambers and be sure the squires bring their chests immediately. But do not lurk too late up with Legolas. His training begins tomorrow, and though Glorfindel would not yet have him rise at dawn, he will work him roughly the first day. He requires a store of rest, if only to weather both his days of swordplay and your nightly revels.” 

With a smile as brilliant as the silmaril above, Elrohir nipped a kiss from his father’s cheek and raced out into the hallway, striding cheerily out of the main entranceway with his twin but seconds behind. Elrond slipped out onto the balcony, to silently observe this long-awaited reunion. 

Even the faintest notion of propriety was forgotten when the two groups of younglings met; though the Greenwood princes did, amusingly, maintain their ranks even amidst the raucous welcome from the ribald princes of Imladris. The eldest, Lorindol, was the most dignified, as befitting the crown prince of any realm. The second, Lanthir, nearly toppled them with the force of his hugging, for he was ever gifted with children and had been the steed in their long-ago horseplay. Shrewd Losgaren wryly pinched their cheeks, while shy Lithbrethil received them with typically bashful charm. Lathron seemed weary from the road and terribly sober, which only lead one to believe the injurious rumors about. When breezy Luinaelin kept them chatting for long minutes, he thought Legolas would break form and yank his brother back by the lengths of his gossamer hair, such did the youngest prince shiver with anticipation. 

He was, in every minute motion, Laurelith’s child, of such ethereal poise that one would never think him the most treacherous warrior of the seven. Already were heralds of his genius with quiver and bow being sung through the Halls of Fire, his speed, acuity, and impossible strength for so lithe an elf the stirrings of legend. If Elbereth had whispered him into beings through his mother’s dreams, then the reality of his skills was a blessing to behold. Elrond had already planned numerous strolls down to the training grounds to watch the near-mythic formation of this elven valiant. Glorfindel himself confessed to him, only days before, that he was afraid there was nothing even one so honored as he could truly teach the young prince; he could only hope to hone the overwhelming talent the Valar had already wrought. The Lord had advised him that the experience of such a tranquil, kindly place as Imladris would be its own reward to the prince, as well as the companionship of his greatest of friends. 

Who were presently wringing every last drop of ardor from their golden one, as Luinaelin had finally quit his ruse and let the companions be fervently reunited. The feeling that coursed between the three princes surged through Elrond as well, the very air about swelled with inexpressible jubilation. His eyes wet, but his composure strictly kept, the Lord absorbed the poignancy of this scene with his usual reserve, though in his mind he witnessed no less than the future of elfkind, the heartful affinity between lifelong friends that would assure unity among their peoples for an immortal span of time. 

Even one of his powers could not know, then, how acutely his gift of foresight spoke.

* * *   
“Is there not a stitch of your raiment in other than green, gwador?” Elrohir queried, his quicksilver eyes alight with mirth. “Verily, even the sage trees of Greenwood must mistake you for one of their own!” 

Legolas fixed him with a hot glare, but the smirk that twisted his pink lips tippled with amusement. His friend had the most astonishing, yet softhearted way of prodding hurts so gently that the facts that wounded most were both revealed and assuaged by his balming presence. Unlike his last, convivial sojourn in Imladris, Legolas came to the valley coarsened by the realities of adulthood and bruised by the sharp-edged strictures of princely life in Greenwood. Even the simple task of emptying his pack was emblematic of his intensely disciplined existence: his garments were worn with use, personal items were spare but weapons abundant, not a grooming implement could be found within save a saber-toothed comb and some binding twine. His Adar had refused to allow him any formal robes, for he was not to dine at banquet tables nor traffic with visiting elders from foreign races. Indeed, twas a miracle his Naneth had dissuaded the King from insisting they sleep in tents by the training fields, though the quarrel had been memorable for it had been one of their few in the last decade. Yet Legolas would have borne all of this unpleasantness, and more, if only for this one quiet moment of complicity between he and Elrohir. 

Though he did enjoy Elladan’s company as well, as they together formed a rambunctious, frolicking threesome about the valley, Elrohir would forever be his dearest of bosom companions. Without a word traded between them, they had instantly understood each other; even in infancy they had been thief-thick. When he had arrived that evening, Legolas had had the odd sense of homecoming; Elrohir’s arm slung about his shoulders more secure than the protection of his entire company of brothers. While dedicated to the swift completion of his current task, his eyes could not help but flicker, every few seconds, over to his friend, who was propped against the base-board of his sleigh-shaped bed with the languid sprawl of a jungle cat lazing at midday. His cheeks burned ruddy from the potent combination of merriment and of tea-sipping, as a steaming cup was precariously balanced on the bend of a lax knee. The rosy vigor of his countenance was in slight contrast to his starlight graces, the velveteen lengths of hair of rare luxury among the Eldar and the porcelain skin as fine as Haradin silk. 

To say that Legolas had recently matured into a visceral appreciation of ellyn of every hue, lineage, or charms was a vast and treacherous understatement. Nor did he restrict his appreciation to those of elven race, as even some of the men his people bartered with had ever so seldom piqued his fancy. He had discovered himself shortly after his return from his first trip to Imladris, concomitant with the celebration of his first majority. Under the sobering shelter of Greenwood boughs, the true nature of his desires may have bloomed late, but these sensual needs currently burgeoned with alarming fecundity, such that every ripe specimen that crossed his path was fodder to his abundant fantasies. Yet in the harsh light of what had happened, as well as what continued to afflict his dear brother Lathron, Legolas realized all too well that his only opportunity to engage himself in bodily exploration came here, in safe Imladris. For this he would require, as ever, Elrohir’s steady companionship and blessed support, thus he was perhaps a touch overeager to broach a subject he knew would ruffle more than a few feathers in his friend’s meticulous plumage. 

With typical Sinda stealth, he would simply have to convince Elrohir that he himself had thought the notion up. 

“As usual,” Legolas repliqued, unable to entirely stifle a soft chuckle. “In your lofty Noldo fashion, you have forgotten how essential camouflage is in the murky wood about my realm. I fear, before long, that we will be suited in naught but gray.” 

“Have such splendorous woods grown so dank?” Elrohir asked, his brow tensed with concern. Yet he could not resist a gibe. “How could they, with the sparkling Thranduilion alighting every nook and hollow?” 

Legolas laughed hardily, flush with embarrassment. 

“And is there one among my starry company that particularly bedazzles?” Legolas taunted, knowing he struck deep. “Lathron would certainly be primed for a tumble with one of the mysterious twin princes of Imladris. The others, I fear, like maids too well to be turned, though Lanthir does have his dewy moments whenever the guard departs…” 

Twas Elrohir’s turn to blush a rather incendiary crimson. 

“I would roast like a feast-day boar over your Adar’s very hearth,” Elrohir retorted, but hesitantly so. “If I so dared such a perversion of one of his sacred band of sons.” 

“That is no denial, ernilen,” Legolas noted wryly. 

“Tis no demand, either, Legolas,” Elrohir underlined. He downed a generous gulp of his tea, then found some rapt fascination with the leaf-shards floating within his cup. That this coincided with the shedding of Legolas’ tunic was not lost on the young archer. “Your tongue has grown bold. Your eyes… gem-like with luster, when Erestor appeared to make his greetings.” 

“Have you never marked his comeliness?” Legolas inquired casually, wanting to quiet the anxiety that quavered the lush tones of his friend’s voice. He slipped into the satiny bed-trousers Elrohir had leant him, fetched his still-fuming tea, then nestled in close to his wrought friend, intuiting that the time for confessions was upon them. “Even my virginal ears have heard tell of his tenderness in bed-play, how his caring and comfort is coveted throughout all the elven realms, though tis said he muses longly over his choice of lover and does not commit easily to a new partner, else his skills be wasted.” 

“You would be made, then?” Elrohir whispered, visibly overwhelmed by the weight of his friend’s decision. 

“I am not resolved to anyone,” Legolas softly told him. “Merely… open.” 

Elrohir digested this news with difficulty, swallowing back draught after singeing draught of his tea, until Legolas was forced to snatch the cup from his hands they trembled so. Once freed, he entwined their long, nimble fingers together, the warmth of this clasp heartening his fraught friend some. 

“Elladan would be better counsel in such sultry matters,” Elrohir murmured, abashed. “I am yet…” 

“Chastened by his predatory example?” Legolas questioned gently, lacing a consoling arm around his slender waist. “One need not be so craven to reap of Elbereth’s bounty, to perform and to enjoy an act that should be, in its essence, loving. I, too, care not for Elladan’s crudeness. I will make my own way about.” 

Yet his resolution, however reasonable, did not seem to pacify his friend. After a huff of Elrondian bluster, Elrohir fell ponderous, his gray eyes clouded with distance and storming with inner debate. Legolas held fast to his darkling friend, for he did not like the cowed manner, stern countenance, and brittle skin he had exhibited since his advent there, so changed from the sweet, giving elf he had known before. He felt his return to Imladris was timely indeed, as Elrohir was embroiled some sort of silent crisis, nearly begging to be lured out of the lair he had banished himself to. That he had wanted for their friendship was plain enough; Legolas would have come sooner if he had known how desperately his presence was required here, by the order of his Adar-King or no. 

“Tis not that…” Elrohir began to explain, but momentarily lost his nerve. He struggled for coherence within, then pushed forward. “I am… curious as any elf, desirous as any youngling so soon after his first majority. Yet whenever I think myself foolish for tarrying so and rouse the courage to frequent the Hall of Fire, I find there naught but Elladan’s seconds. Or those who have not yet caught his eye and would have me for sport! I am an elf in my own right, not some… consolatory prize.” 

Legolas had never seen his friend seethe with such bitterness at his twin, nor at those wanton suitors that clung about him like vultures over a fresh carcass. Their intentions were unpalatable at best, but certainly one of Elrohir’s comeliness could choose other alternatives than flaunting oneself in the Hall of Fire. Yet if these raptors were scaring Elrohir away from his own indulgences, he could well empathize. He knew too well the effort of navigating through a atmosphere fogged-in with fear. 

He cinched his hold on Elrohir, pouring the warmth of his friendship through this tenuous link. 

“You would be a treasure to any elf so blessed by your regard,” Legolas reassured him. “Though worthiness does seem to be lacking, even in hallowed Imladris. I pray my own designs will not be so fruitless. You may suffer from Elladan’s repute, but that is naught compared to the suffering your preferences would incur in Greenwood.” 

“Aiya, Legolas! Forgive me!” Elrohir bleated, apologetic. “I meant not to discourage you. I know too well how… how this stay is perhaps your only chance for… I selfishly thought but of my woes, and not of the leisure you so needfully seek here.” Instantly dismissing his own preoccupations, he straightened in his seat and foist enlivened argent eyes on his dear friend. “Tell me, gwador, is there truth to those gutting rumors? Was Lathron discovered?” 

“Aye, he was,” Legolas exhaled longly, his lips souring into a moue. “Ada-King is normally quite fair where our transgressions are concerned, but on this occasion… I have never before witnessed such a wrath as his that raged that day. I thought he would beat my brother, though he has never raised a hand against us. We all feared Lathron would be banished… but, instead, we were sent here. Lathron will not say what grave instruction Ada gave him. Indeed, little can be pried from him at any time of day. Yet he did confide to me, in the hushest of moments, that he was not to touch another male again, even here in Imladris. Which is why I thought that you and he might… find some peace together. No servant would dare speak of any tryst of yours, if only for love of the little ones they helped rear. Tis the way here, a loving way unknown in the mirthless Mirkwood.”

“The Mirkwood?” Elrohir asked. 

“The tradesmen have taken to calling it thus,” Legolas elaborated. “Though Ada-King rails against any who use such a dire appellation, it is catching on even among our people. The woods are strange, Elrohir, they no longer sing to us. They simper with desolation. They hide spiders, orcs, and other heathen spawn. No elf is safe beyond the gates, not any longer.” 

Only then did Legolas realize that he had sunk down into Elrohir’s arms and rested a drowsy head on his shoulder. Indeed, his entire being felt heavy, groggy, as if speaking of his homeland reminded his muscles of the prolonged exertions they had endured this long month of travel. The succoring warmth of the bed beckoned something fierce, though the embrace that held him did have its comforts. 

Comforts he was suddenly not so eager to sacrifice to his brother’s ailing, aching body. 

“Then I am doubly glad of your return,” Elrohir murmured, mindful of his Adar’s earlier caution about Legolas’ need for sleep’s replenishment. “Here at the start, I can only be grateful for the many, many occasions on which we will be able to take up the strain of this meandering conversation. At present, I feel I must bid you pleasant dreams, gwador, as you smell of snowfall and slumber.”

“Will you not stay?” Legolas queried, with a playful squeeze around his friend. “I am unused to such isolation, such expanses of sheets to spread over. I sleep in the barracks, with the other soldiers. The stillness will keep me wakeful.” 

Scowling once more at the mule-headedness of the Greenwood monarch, Elrohir guided his woozy friend into the folds of the bed, then lay himself out atop the coverlet. He would sneak away once Legolas gave in to somnolence, as, despite his friend’s conviction to the contrary, servant-bred rumors were as fleet-winged as a dove courier and they flew straight as an arrow, not to fiendish gossips, but to the Lord’s chambers. 

“I will stay awhile,” he promised, petting the prince’s laurelled crown with effluent fondness. 

As he drifted off to his sunny dreamscape, Legolas smiled with unbound affection.

* * * 

After they dredged themselves up from the soaking rush of the Bruinen onto the scorching rock shelf, they extended their swim-thrumming bodies across the searing black surface of stone, supplicant to blazing Anor above. Eight days from the midsummer solstice, the sun broiled with blinding, furious might; nature blossomed full and lush beneath her glorious rays. At the hotpoint of the blistering afternoon, Elrohir and Legolas could no more aim a bow than breathe through the sweltering atmosphere of the archery fields, so they escaped down to the river, cast off their sweat-sticky raiment, and dove in for a quenching race to the middle ridge of rock. 

With the midsummer festival fast approaching, Glorfindel had gifted his charge with a fortnight’s reprieve from his strenuous training, though by the languorous way Legolas had spread himself out and by his drooping, nap-wanting eyelids, he’d not yet entirely replenished his energies from the first three brutal months. Elrohir had been only too heartened by this chance to run wild with his friend about the valley, as Legolas’ efforts to be lively through their nightly frolics often left him with a lingering sense of guilt. He treasured his friend’s company so that he could not keep from him, yet, despite his mindfulness, the strain of this manic lifestyle on him was too vividly apparent for Elrohir’s goodly conscience. 

Too ample chance for reflection had left him torn in other, more unwieldy matters. 

Legolas’ remarks, upon the night of his advent, had struck him deeply. Elrohir sensed intuitively that a golden time, and not merely a septet of golden elves, was upon him, that Legolas was the rare intimate to which he could confide his desires, his insecurities, and his embroiling passions. Their mirrored circumstance was an uncounted blessing: both sought physical maturity with a careful, caring partner, both had only the briefest window of time in which to accomplish this personal evolution, both were equally exacting where the vetting of potential suitors was concerned. Why not search the imperiled seas of Imladrian society together? 

Over time and increased togetherness, Elrohir had located the vital flaw in this reasoning; which was to say that he came to understand how painfully foolish this first resolution to find an outside lover with the company and the support of his dear friend was, as said friend was the most eligible and attractive of all potential suitors. The ease with which they conversed, the tenderness with which they attended the other’s most awful confessions, the amiable way in which they mercilessly jested and the earnestness with which they pledged themselves to an eternity’s alliance; who else but Legolas could be more trusted in such a delicate situation, who else could be more true? 

That his body had flamed fierce with desire the moment he’d come to this unnerving awareness of his friend as a sensual being, as a loving-partner, had only resolved him further towards the rightness of this course. As his fluid mithril gaze turned molten with rapt appreciation of his dozing friend, Elrohir cast aside any consideration of how to broach such a sensitive subject with the Greenwood prince and allowed himself to rake unctuously admiring eyes over his prone form. Relentless exposure to Anor’s lecherous rays had lapped Legolas a honeyed bronze, while arduous training had hammered his skin taut over hard strips of muscle. His crown of hair was of a burnished gold, that slunk down his arms and his shoulders like the gossamer snakes the unbound Ladies of Lorien wore as the most opulent adornment, to signal their availability. The blatant, covetous stares that followed Legolas wherever he ventured only further stoked Elrohir’s near insatiable desire; he had never before known such a craven need for another. 

The rawness of his wanting had stayed his tongue awhile, as he fretted over whether Legolas would misread his overture as a gesture born of affection. Not that he did not love his friend! Yet what he sought from him was not his sacred heart, but his complicity, his kindness, and his curiosity. If they could not part amicably at the end of his training time, if they could not re-embark on their steadying friendship without threat of over-spilling emotions, then they’d best not engage themselves thusly. Yet how could even one oft so eloquent as he voice this without chancing Legolas’ injury? Or, worse, his own disappointment? For he had come to the realization that if they did not dabble in the bed-arts together, then he would remain virginal for a great many years to come. 

When Legolas rolled, with leonine languor, onto his back and displayed his overgenerous endowments to the adoring sun, only one of the many, marvelous ways in which maturation had primed him for adulthood, Elrohir found he could not give a chance of credence to such an execrable outcome for them both. 

He simply would have to convince him. 

“Take your ease, gwador,” Legolas purred, lazy from Anor’s hot flirtations. “The day is long, and we are free of burdens. Let your mind rest, Elrohir, else you will grow sullen.” 

“Am I oft sullen, in your estimation?” Elrohir asked pointedly. 

“Nay,” Legolas chuckled warmly. “But you are too serious, this day! The air is a sultry haze, the sun bold and the river blithe. Why not quit your fretting awhile, and give over to the elements?” To his surprise, the archer laced a strong grip through his fingers and gave a gentle tug. “Come, lie at my side. Let Anor kiss rosy that lovely skin of yours.” 

“As you wish,” Elrohir exhaled in a rush, startled by his candor.

Breathless after such an unexpected compliment, Elrohir could do naught but comply. He reclined himself against a slope in the scalding rock so as to not entirely give up the godly sight of Legolas, whose hand was still affectionately entwined with his own. Elrohir knew a more fitting time would not likely present itself, yet he could not help but shiver some with panic, with anticipation. 

When an absence of shadow cast across him, he woke from his worrying to meet the shrewd observance of rippling aquamarine eyes. 

“What ails you, Elrohir?” Legolas questioned, honeyed face veiled with concern. “The sun flames like a pyre, yet you tremble as skittishly as a colt newly wrenched from its mother’s womb.” His friend attempted to soothe a tender touch over the outstretched length of his chest, but his every stroke sizzled, charred a braising path up his abdomen, over his pinched pectorals. “Forgive my earlier ignorance, meldir. If there is ought that troubles you, please tell me of it.” 

“Tis no trouble,” Elrohir explained, the halting pace of his words more due to stimulation than hesitation. “Indeed, I have… I have come to a resolution.” 

Legolas arched an angelic brow, then asked softly: “What have you resolved, gwador?”

Elrohir could not quite stifle the smirk that curled his lips, though he hardly felt confident in the coming inquiry. Yet something about Legolas’ open, honest face welcomed both his solicitation and his salaciousness; he would indeed find both comfort and care in his archer’s bed. 

“Midsummer revels are soon upon us,” Elrohir offered, then cut to the quick. “I’ve thought on taking a lover.” 

“As have I,” Legolas admitted, with an easy smile. “The solstice provides the perfect excuse for such indulgence, as all are cheerful, and as everyone is preoccupied with finding their own bed-mate, few take note of the flirtations of others, lest it bars them from the one they covet.” As clouds obscured the sun for a fleeting moment, a shadow passed over Legolas’ bright face. “Have you found one who moves you? Who will lavish you with the care you so richly deserve?” 

“Perhaps,” Elrohir replied coyly, snatching up Legolas’ hand anew. “I am uncertain of his regard. I fear he will not have me.” 

“Then he is a great, witless fool,” Legolas suddenly seethed. He caught himself, and his cheeks pricked with rose. 

Elrohir laughed aloud, almost sick with merriment at his emphatic reaction, then brought his friend’s fisted fingers to his lips and kissed them soundly. 

“Do not so abuse yourself, gwador,” Elrohir chided him mirthfully. “When you’ve not even had the slightest chance to mull over my incipient proposal.” 

In an instant, Legolas was radiant with elation; his eyes of such a piercing, crystal blue that Elrohir thought himself spelled. The blush in the archer’s cheeks rose to peachy ripeness, and, to the darkling elf’s utter astonishment, his friend became quite incorrigibly bashful. 

“I had not dared to hope that you might… might come to consider me,” Legolas confessed, with adorable timidity. “From the very awakening of my desire, I have thought… nay, *believed* that we were meant to teach each other, to succor and to rouse, to learn of the hallowed love-act in mutually inflicted thrall. In truth, I could not conscience giving myself to any other than you, Elrohir. Our friendship is the perfect balm to coat over any… awkwardness, or discomfort.”

“There will be none, I swear it,” Elrohir insisted, shifting to his side and drawing him in close. “I will ravish you with exquisite care, Legolas.” 

“I know it,” Legolas enlightened him, suddenly bristling with untamable excitement. “Indeed, I have conjured the moment more times than you could possibly imagine.” 

“If your imaginings compare to my own,” Elrohir bettered him. “Then we are well matched indeed.” His face tensed as he considered his next words with extreme caution, unwilling to sever their fragile pact too soon. “Yet I must underline one rather salient notion… that we be coupled in friendship only. We will be lovers, but are not to be…” 

“I am a Prince of Greenwood, and long betrothed to a rather dippy maid,” Legolas assured him. “I have no romantic illusions. If ought, I seek above all to preserve our ample friendship. I would not loose you over some groaning time, when our conspiratorial eternity’s at stake.” 

“Then we are agreed,” Elrohir beamed, alight with the future’s promise. 

“Most fervently agreed,” Legolas seconded, yet already wondering at what might follow their resolution. 

His unspoken question was most deliciously answered, when Elrohir softed a quick, dizzying kiss over his stunned mouth. He swiftly stole one of his own, to seal his compliance, but thought better of tempting discovery in such an exposed area. Neither needed remark upon the essential requirement of absolute secrecy. Indeed, by the flash of Elrohir’s quicksilver eyes, the genial peredhil was already plotting some further mischief for them. 

“Yet we must not be too bold, nor foolish,” Elrohir sagely proposed. “We are innocent in the ways of love, and have much to learn. While I would caution against consulting others too openly… there are various tomes in the Great Library that are well-known to Elladan and I, from our adolescent years, that might prove interesting. Instructive.” 

“Well reasoned, gwador,” Legolas nodded, suddenly all too aware of the many gray areas of the coupling act. “We must undertake our mission as any warrior would, utilizing all the resources at hand.” He considered this, then added: “We must also sink slowly into such intimacy, if only for the sake of prolonged indulgence. Perhaps we might… essay a few, less gymnastic acts, before overwhelming ourselves with the task of the other’s taking.” 

“Fairly argued, meldiren,” Elrohir grinned, with a wolfishness Legolas had never before observed in him. The archer subsequently tried on a rather saucy smirk of his own, which led them both to giggle at their mock-seductiveness. 

Elrohir, for his part, could not wait for the shroud of evening. He saw no reason to delay their revels another night, not when he might savor his first, potent taste of sun-baked, succulent wood-elf. 

* * *

The treetops were crowned with the laurels of a golden sunset and the sky was a rosy, blazing firmament, as Imladris grew somnolent with the descending twilight. Though the night would be soft and fair, the valley’s people had retreated indoors, choosing temperance in the days before the incessant revels of the solstice. A billowy queue of robe-clad nobles wafted from the banquet table to the Hall of Fire, tippling goblets of fizzy wine and chatting jovially with their companions. 

The Lord had held a spare but hardy meal for the Greenwood delegation, though the guest list was tightly restricted and even some of the princes were purposefully absent, in compliance with their King’s wishes. The treaty had been ratified that very afternoon, after a week of thunderous debates; an event that could not rightly go without even the most sober of celebrations. Yet after a three-month in the sanctuary of Imladris, even the strictest of the Greenwood princes were beginning to lax in their self-vigilance: the standing invitation to dine at the Lord’s table was accepted with routine frequency, they could often now be found in the friendly company of some of the patrol’s finest guardsmen, and, in later hours, several had been glimpsed sampling the bodily offerings at the famed Baths of Imladris. This came as no surprise to the inhabitants of the valley, nor to the Greenwood princes themselves, as these activities were as much a part of their intentions for journeying to Rivendell as the treaty’s consolidation. 

As he swept through the ivy-twined gables that lead to the Lady’s rose gardens, Legolas praised Elbereth that he had been granted a stay from the banquet by his snobby brothers, who were entirely unaware of the great favor they inadvertently did him. Since the whole of Lord Elrond’s advisors were occupied with the meeting that afternoon – including guard-captain Glorfindel and, most vitally, the Loremaster Erestor, Elrohir had been free to scour the stacks of the Great Library for the incendiary literature they so eagerly sought. Indeed, all of their elders were so suitably distracted this night, that he was presently en route to said library, to rendezvous with his fellow erotic adventurer, so that they might peruse several volumes of coveted, though morally questionable, content. 

Legolas was so buoyant with delight at the prospect, that he all but bubbled along the dusky path, his pace as fluid and gushing as the Bruinen at its most bucolic. Once striding through the rosebushes, he was tempted to snip off a bloom or two to gift to Elrohir, but felt that such a gesture would be too starry-eyed for his darkling elf. Instead, a decanter of icy Forochel wine was swathed in the front folds of his light tunic, which would hopefully render them dizzy-witted enough to unleash their inhibitions and to provoke them, once swollen with the books’ heady inspiration, into gentle, sensual play. After naught but the chastest peck of a kiss had passed between them since their riverside resolution two days hence, both Legolas’ primed body and his simmering senses were more than ready for the carnal explorations promised him on that balmy day. 

Elrohir, however, had proved more reticent, his studious character seeking comfort in knowledge, explicit information, and meticulous preparation. Legolas continued to indulge these overly-cautious methods in the hopes of quickening his own indulgence – for he had, in the past, learnt much from Elrohir’s innate sagacity and his ample reserves of patience - but his insurgent desires would not wait long past this night of book-learning. Time was ever of the essence. Between his stringent siblings, Elrohir’s own nosy twin, and the considerable paucity of chance for their trysting, they could not long dally over dusty tomes, when they could be tumbling between the sheets. Yet he himself proved curious as to what manner of instruction could be gleaned from elven lore on the saucy subject of coupling, other than a few insipid volumes of poetry. His potential lover was convinced that the library possessed more than a few salubrious books, which, if they did not aid them, might at least be serviceable enough to arouse them. 

This thought hastened Legolas’ already brisk steps, embroiling him such in rabid anticipation that he all but slammed into an ornate stone bench, upon which he was both shocked and achingly sorry to discover his brother, Lathron. 

The fifth prince of Greenwood was, thankfully, just as aghast at his younger brother’s sudden surge out of the velvety veils of twilight. For a moment, both gawked and hiccupped at the other, until Legolas was vividly struck by the cause for Lathron’s stealthy vigil. As his brother battled fear, frustration, and acute disappointment to form a coherent sentence, Legolas fondly clutched his shoulder, then let a curly smirk of mirthful understanding twist his lips. Twas only too apparent that Lathron awaited the shroud advent of a lover, so that they might abscond to some secret loft and sate themselves of longing. Legolas easily surmised that the location of their meet was not incidental. Indeed, the garden was in all probability chosen for the same reasons Elrohir gave when advising him on his route this evening: its relative seclusion and its necessary proximity to the Great Library. Twas then that Legolas guessed smartly at, with a surety that thrilled him, the identity of Lathron’s lover. 

The swish of cloth alerted them, not to danger, but to said lover’s timely arrival. Legolas whispered his well-wishes into the tip of Lathron’s pointed ear, squeezed his approval into the plum of his arm, then whisked himself away. Once on the Library steps, he glanced back in time to observe two graceful silhouettes blend seamlessly together, as the lovers spoke their greetings through a lush embrace. With an ebullient smile, Legolas murmured a solemn prayer to Elbereth to bless his tender brother’s union, wither tenuous or everlasting. 

When he finally stole through the labyrinthine stacks of books and came upon the alcove hidden within, he found Elrohir gazing dreamily out the bulbous oval window at the heartful scene beyond. 

“Is it not wondrous, Legolas,” he reverently remarked. “That two such worthy souls have found solace in togetherness?” 

“Aye, they are doubly dear,” Legolas nodded, giddy with the thought of his brother’s prospective happiness. “Lathron has been ravaged by sorrow, this last year. I can think of none more suited to his soothing than an elf of such remedial repute as Erestor.” 

“Erestor has had his share of troubles,” Elrohir noted. “Ever one to enjoy for a bountiful time of bed-play, but never one to know a beloved’s heart. His lovers give their bodies gratefully, but think not of his spiritual needs. I know there are titanic obstructions to any love they might bear each other, but I cannot help but hope…” 

“As do I, gwador,” Legolas agreed. “With more fervor than you could ever know.” He joined Elrohir at the window in time to watch the lovers drift into the forest haunts, arms warmly entwined, heads bent conspiratorially. He sighed longly, saving a silent prayer for his own future relations. Yet when he spied Elrohir’s decidedly wicked grin, he could not help but simmer with anticipation. “And what lascivious works have you gathered for me, peredhil?” 

Elrohir snickered at his rough tone, gesturing for him to take ease on one of the plush couches. With a similarly rakish smirk, Legolas dangled the decanter of ice wine before him and rebelliously bit off the stop, before resurrecting some sense of politeness in offering the first draught to his astonished friend. This, however, did not keep the darkling elf from drinking deep from the decanter, the wine staining his mouth a decadent crimson. When his cheeks flushed hot in turn, Legolas was entranced. Vaulting over the couch to plunk himself soundly amidst the plump cushions and velour pillows, Legolas urged Elrohir to settle himself within arm’s reach. After the darkling elf settled in close beside him, his trembling hands proffered the decanter for his quenching, but instead Legolas rested it on the waytable. 

Dismissing his confusion, Elrohir began: “I have assembled several volumes that purport to explain the intricacies of bodily loving-“ 

“Your lips are ripe as peaches, Elrohir,” Legolas complimented him, tucking a stray length of ebony silk behind his ear and slinking his lissome fingers along its sensitive slope. The elf-knight shivered, tensed. “Might I taste them?” 

“So soon?” he queried, but as soon as his head turned a singeing look ensnared him and he could do naught but faintly nod his consent. 

Their chaste kisses before were nothing like sultry lips that smoothed over his own, the mouth that suckled him with gaudy care and the soft tongue that delved within. Hot breath melded with his own tremulous whimpers whenever the giving mouth eased away, only to lap more vigorously, plunge more boldly, plunder more ruthlessly upon its return. Just when he thought he might swoon from the bliss of it, Legolas broke off, his chest heaving mightily and his mouth smeared a brash scarlet. He pressed a thumb to his lips as if to seal in both protest and praise, then flicked his sparkling eyes towards the modest pile of books on the table. 

Elrohir exhaled slowly, grappling for some sense of inner balance while his blood coursed with vertiginous speed through his veins. 

“Most, I believe, will prove useless, or unnecessary,” he explained, his senses still spinning and his mind fixated on the memory of that kiss. He lay a particularly hefty volume on his lap, then sank back into the spongy cushions so that they both might review its contents. Legolas, helpfully, threw an arm around his shoulders; anchoring him in. When he flipped the cover over, the book was spread across their legs, its spine wedged between them. “But this, I think, will inspire us.” 

“The Iluvanargroth,” Legolas read, with no little awe. “Or A Thousand Nights of Rapture. An artful rendering of the legend of Brilthor and Hirilorn, the two greatest male lovers of elfkind. With lyrics by Aewlin Rhovanion and pictorials by Telchar Dimrostion.”

“Are you familiar with the legend?” Elrohir inquired, his teasing fingers skirting the edge of the page. 

“Nay,” Legolas confessed, though he was breathlessly eager to learn more. 

“Brilthor was of Nan Elmoth, son of a noble line,” Elrohir hushly told him. “The Lord had recently passed on, killed in the Dagor Aglareb, but in the peace that reigned after there was no true heir to his rule. Indeed, there was some contest over which cousin was best suited to the throne. As such, each undertook a quest to prove their valor. Brilthor, as his looks tended towards the Silvan line of his naneth, chose to infiltrate the compound of the Gray Elves in the mountains of Ered Luin. Though these were a foreboding lot, he won over their trust with his graceful character, and even fought in their tribal battles, though this was mostly a time of peace between the Noldo and the Sinda. During this stay, he was entranced by his swordbrother Hirilorn, who was indeed the crown prince of his people. Their fiery passion was encouraged by the King of the land, such that Brilthor eventually gave up his claim on the rule of Nan Elmoth and secretly sent word of his abdication. The lovers were bound in a glorious ceremony by Lake Helevorn, then they retreated atop Mount Rerir to celebrate their union with a thousand nights of furious lovemaking. So beloved were they by the elves of Ered Luin that they insisted on this honey time; indeed, their revels became the stuff of legend, as it was said one could hear their roaring groans from the very banks of the lake below. Yet, while the couple was away, a messenger came from Nan Elmoth, informing the King of Brilthor’s true identity. His rage was so hot that, coupled with the lovers’ conflagrant passion, they lit the dormant mountain anew, and it soon spewed forth bilious lava. Brilthor and Hirilorn died as they had lived: scorched with love.” 

To emphasize the potency of his tale, Elrohir casually turned over the first page to display an image of such flagrant carnality Legolas gasped, sharp and scraping. Both flamed bright with embarrassment, as they examined the daringly explicit image, not entirely able to believe this the product of elven imaginings, but also unable to look away. Indeed, both hung in rapt fascination of the intricate entwining of limbs, tongues, and gouging groins, until Legolas cleared his throat with a grating cough. The archer grabbed desperately for the wine. 

“Tis rather ambitious,” he shakily intoned, before downing a considerable draught of the spirits. “Might there be other, more suitable…?” 

“Hundreds more, if you can believe,” Elrohir hastened to explain, picking up the thread of his implication. “I thought we might find… a few potentials… to agree on?” He flipped to the second image, at which Legolas emitted a strange, choking sound. After another gulp of wine, he shoved the decanter over at his friend, who was similarly needful of refreshment. 

“Verily, I consider myself pliant, but this…?” Legolas shook his head with disbelief, and a touch of disapproval. He pawed through the next few images, each more gymnastic than the one before. He paused at one knotty position, then, despite himself, let out a emphatic guffaw. Elrohir was only too grateful to join in his merriment, the relief of laugher even more quenching than the wine. “Can one truly derive pleasure from such a… How ridiculous!” 

Their manic, venting peals of laughter only increased as they paged through the book, each successive image more impossible than the last. Elrohir became so woozy with mirth that he nuzzled his head into the crook of Legolas’ neck, only lifting to take another drink from the fast-flowing wine. He soon found himself more captivated by his friend than by the naughty pictures, lecherously observing the play of discomfiture, amusement, and some small measure of arousal across his ruddy face. 

Suddenly, Legolas blanched, his eyes gaping wide. His gaze skittered off to one side, but was helplessly lured back by the provocative image, which had, beyond doubt, struck him hard. With a predatory smirk, Elrohir looked down at the writhing elves depicted there and discovered their rather rudimentary position was very much to his own liking. Legolas, for his part, was mesmerized by the sight, his glassy eyes signaling that he already imagined them so entwined. Elrohir hugged tighter to him, which luckily summoned him back, then lay a slender strip of ribbon along the inside fold of the book. 

“Perhaps they are not all so ambitious, hm?” he gently taunted him. 

Legolas’ cheeks fired, but he demurred: “I have dreamt of this… of you…” He drew in a dagger breath, then counseled himself. “Is it… to your liking?” 

“Tis indeed,” Elrohir grinned, emboldened by the wine. He tossed a few pages over, then halted at one promising image. “And this?”

“*Elbereth*,” Legolas swallowed, digesting this new depiction. “But I would be the dark one, I would…” 

“Aye, you *must*, Legolas,” Elrohir ardently agreed. “Our first night, if it pleases you.”

“I can think of nothing that would please me more,” Legolas insisted. “Except…” Enjoying this game, he speedily turned the pages over, until he rested on what he hadn’t truly known he sought. “*This*.” Elrohir’s only response was a constant, rumbling purr into his collar. 

“You missed a treat,” the darkling elf rasped, flipping back to another image of elves wrought in carnal abandon. “Can you not implicitly sense how… sundering… this would be?” 

“And this, before?” Legolas enthused. “I had not thought to mention it, but since you like that, I thought…” 

“Our tastes flatter, “ Elrohir remarked, with palpable affection. “We are well matched. Indeed, once we conquer our fears and embrace such intimacies, I believe we will both know the keenest pleasure imaginable.” 

“This book is a rare find,” Legolas approved. “Might we steal it awhile?” 

“I will speak with Erestor,” Elrohir promised him, chuckling softly. “He may require it for his own inspiration.” 

As a comfortable silence fell between them, Legolas took a last sip of the crisp ice wine, then lay his drowsy head atop Elrohir’s. Yet he was far from fatigued; indeed, though unctuously spread over his luxurious seat, his body was anything but relaxed. An urgent, clamoring throb quaked from his uproariously engorged loins, so strung that the bind of his breeches chafed his seeping head with every shift or slight movement. With every turn of page, every successive image, the aching pulse quickened, until his bulge grew so prominent that it could not have escaped his coltish Elrohir’s note. 

“Lovely one,” he murmured into that silken ebony hair. “I fear…” 

“*Saes*, Legolas,” the darkling elf whined, misunderstanding his intent. “I cannot bear it.” His gasps were coming so quick, the archer thought he might wind himself. “You must… you *must*…” To his utter shock, Elrohir slapped the book shut, threw it onto the table, then grabbed at the binds to his own, too heavy breeches. The shaft within prodded adamantly up, begged to be forcefully handled. Before Legolas could blink, Elrohir was urging his quivering, anxious fingers down within the open front. “Touch me.” 

As smoldering lips pillaged his own, he palmed the painfully wrought erection; exploring, at first, the satiny texture of the swollen skin, before tickling his fingers up the underside. Elrohir moaned quite encouragingly into his mouth, rocking hips helped set the desired rhythm, as Legolas cinched his grip around the brimming member and massaged a thumb over the dripping head. Adrift in the opulent thrall of rapture, Elrohir bit, sucked, and tongued even as he groaned, prying hands taking charge of Legolas’ baring. 

With a giddy trill, between sultry kisses, he ripped his friend’s tunic open and tore his breech laces off. After a throaty growl of appreciation at the magnificence of the archer’s towering engorgement, he set gleefully to the task of feeling him, fiercely stroking him, until both were keening wildly at the raucous flow of pleasure that besotted them in wave after maddening wave. As he rode the immaculate crest of ecstasy that surged within him, Legolas intuited – somewhere amidst the raving haze – that with a deft maneuver they could easily soar to even greater heights. To this end, he quit his fisting, dug down the back of Elrohir’s drooping breeches, then pressed their heaving chests, slick abdomens, and inflamed groins hard together, in a delirious, devastating friction. They quit their luscious kisses and buckled feverishly together, the sensation so ludicrous, so incensing, that neither had the wit to delay their volcanic spending. 

His formerly reserved and deliberate Elrohir sung out a litany of exotic curses, as his viscous spurtings scalded over his stomach, down legs flexed by their own voluminous expenditures, until they were both sodden with seed and sobbing at the momentousness of such an elemental act. Both sought refuge in the other’s consoling, caressing arms; their kisses were equally needful and exultant. Overwhelmed by the emotionality of what had just transpired, Elrohir curled into Legolas’ constant embrace and cried a longly while; twas only then the wood-elf realized how pithy his friend’s defenses were against the violent tides of feeling. He vowed to take greater care with him, to ensure his readiness before any further act of love was undertaken.

Yet once calm descended, Elrohir proved to be quite cuddly, cocooning them snugly under an enormous wool blanket he’d had the foresight to bring, after tenderly cleansing them both. Twas then that Legolas became affected by the import of the occasion; though his eyes brimmed, he did not allow a tear to be shed. 

There was no cause for weeping when so blessed by fate and fortune. 

 

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Two 

Imladris, Year 216, Third Age

The night was theirs alone, and for this Legolas was only too grateful. 

In the days before the midsummer solstice, the normally bucolic valley of sage Imladris was infected by a frivolity and lassitude unknown to the censured denizens of Greenwood the Great. Whether in the bright of day or under the shroud of night, lovers were free to be lured out into the open by nature’s siren song; into the open meadows, verdant forests, or by banks of the bubbling river, to be possessed by the wildling, primordial pulse of the splendorous land about them and to couple with primitive abandon in its lush element. Hardly could an unsuspecting elf tread through the misty morning wood, amble down to the training fields, or bathe in the roaring cascade, without accidentally witnessing the fevered mating of two nubile elven bodies, if said lovers were not instead grazing naked about the grass. 

Legolas found himself at turns fascinated and scandalized by such a flagrant lack of inhibitions among the inhabitants of this blithe sanctuary, though he gladly preferred their wantonness over the puritan strictures of Greenwood, especially since it was restricted to a mere week a year. While Elladan ever hastened to remind him that such revels were meant in tribute to the Valar and they but complimented the various preparatory rites the royal family enacted each night, Legolas could not quite entirely embrace the expository essence of the practice, even though many of the couples he’d come across had been engaged in rather instructive acts of passion. Indeed, despite his reservations, he and Elrohir took a regular stroll through the woods each evening, in order to ‘by chance’ come upon an all-too-enthusiastic live demonstration of some of the skills they themselves hoped to soon acquire. 

Other than merely rousing, these ventures had taught them much of the coupling act, nuances that no book could properly instill in their rabid young minds. Added to their own continuous adventures in petting and groping, the green princes were beginning to probe deeper into the miasma of their desires, to differ want from need, to appreciate that caring for a partner was as vital as pleasing him. From observing the minstrel Lindir, they had learnt the importance of vocal encouragement of one’s lover, from the most tender troths to fiercer commands whilst embroiled. From a couple in the vineyards they had discovered how easily salve could be improvised. While riding up from Barrowman’s Close, the village on the outskirts of Rivendell, they got an unfortunate eyeful of how savagely some elves abused their position, how they mistreated mortal maids, luring them into the forest haunts and tricking them into their kneeling service. The most startling incident had been when Legolas had come upon his brother, Losgaren, rutting some ripe-bosomed elf maiden into the very bark of a droopy-boughed elm and baying like a wolfhound. More consoling had been the stunning sight of Lathron and Erestor standing bare beneath the shimmering spill of the cascade, their eyes aglow with nascent love. The scene had so moved him that he’d immediately sought Elrohir in the stables and dragged him up to the hayloft for a swift, emphatic stroke. 

Once, when bounding down to the Bruinen for a midnight swim, they had come upon Glorfindel with an unrecognizable partner. Looming like sylphs about the moonlit trees, they had been amazed by how longly the majestic gold elf had been able to sustain the pace of his rhythmic penetration of the sleek elf beneath him, whereas they could barely grind out five gyrations before spending. This had been the most telling lesson of all, that in their adolescent haste for experience and for satisfaction, they had perhaps forsake some of the artfulness in lovemaking. They had therefore resolved to design some naughty exercise to practice their endurance, this final lesson gleaned just days before the ensorcelling rites of the solstice would overtake them and purpose would be overcome by pure instinct. 

This was how Legolas came to find Elrohir spread so delectably out before him, his ivory skin shining and shaded by the pools of candlelight. Their nightly stroll had invigorated them both after the fugue-inducing ritual they had attended by the sacrificial pyre, solemn chants and sultry groans had mingled, had echoed through their incense-heightened minds even as they had stripped each other enticingly bare. Even then nursing a still malleable erection, Elrohir had selected the salve he preferred, then left Legolas with the enviable task of massaging the fragrant oil over every swatch of his silky skin, every cleft and slope of his brawny peredhil frame. Indeed, Legolas had never before truly noted the distinct variances in the structure of a half-elf: the solid structure of the bones, the meatier lengths of muscle, the dark thatches of musky hair, and the feral power of the mannish notes in his scent. As he slowly worked his craven fingers over every taut mound of him, as he mapped out scars, bruises, and sensitive hollows, caressing him firmly, yet reverently, in all but the most intimate of places, Legolas was all the more astounded by the Valar’s exquisite craftsmanship of this beauteous being. 

He understood, then, what Glorfindel had not genuinely sought to teach them; that the act of love was a privilege offered only to the most cherished of suitors, that it was in essence the worship of another’s radiance, that the most immaculate bliss in coupling could only come from the deepest respect between partners. 

When he broke from the fog of this realization, he found Elrohir smirking quite bemusedly at him, his mithril eyes alight with mirth. Legolas had been softly crooning some nonsense verse, half-remembered from a volume of poetry Elrohir had gifted him on his last visit, as he absently kneaded the plump of his calf, lost in contemplation. In the bedchamber behind the thin wall, Elladan was already racing towards his peak, boldly astride Glorfindel’s first lieutenant, both quite audible and vociferous in their mutual appreciation. Their keening was in stark contrast to the languid atmosphere in their own amber-hued bedchamber, which was, no doubt, the very irony that Elrohir’s infectious smile bemusedly reflected. 

Legolas assayed one of his own, though more thoughtful in tenor, after stretching the leg up over his shoulder to better massage the thigh. Glutted by such gorgeous sensation, Elrohir went entirely lax, grazing his fumbling fingers through the black strip of hair that sprouted up the ripped plane of his abdomen. 

“I never thought a wood-elf would be so mysterious,” Elrohir remarked, though with effluent fondness. “I feel I should cultivate a budding jealousy for this imaginary lover you so oft drift away to.” 

Legolas chuckled softly, then answered: “Even the most pompous of Silvan warriors knows some quiet moments of pondering. Which is the most effective slice when seeking to decapitate an orc? Was the gruel better yestereve, or reheated this dank morn? Will I suffer reprimand if I taint my arrow fletches a lighter shade of green than common?” 

“And which provokes you this night, ernilen?” Elrohir inquired, not entirely without serious intent. “Or do you still seek to unravel the twiny, knotted strings of influence upon the linearly enfeebled and the ruthlessly lecherous Noldo mind?” 

Legolas sighed, then laughed dryly. 

“At present, I question the strictures of my Greenwood upbringing,” Legolas quietly admitted. “How wild my brothers have gone at the barest whiff of maid, how covetous I have become of your touch, your body’s loving… This night, I walked through a forest howling with ecstatic lovers and I did not even blush at their more crude curses! If ought, this easy way seems warming… seems right.” He paused to center himself, as Elrohir waited patiently, intuiting that there was much more for him to vent, to debate within himself. “I crave your touch as nothing I have ever wanted, gwador. Waking each morn to your kisses, your culls at my neck and your clutch around my stiffness… I cannot imagine retuning to the Mirkwood, to an empty bunk beside my swordbrothers, to a time without you near.”

“You will tire of me, in the years to come,” Elrohir assured him. “The newness bedazzles you, but too swiftly your sparkling eyes will be attracted by some other beauty, some other braveheart.”

Shutting his eyes so as to keep him from their burnished beam, Legolas whispered: “Tis not in my nature to love so brazenly. I like constancy too well.” 

“Then you will enjoy a series of constant lovers,” Elrohir concluded, chafing some at the implications of their discussion. “Though I grant these will be found only on sojourns from Greenwood. When you are there, just think on our golden time here. Keep a store of memories for the more restrictive times ahead, mark every moment of our mating for later remembrance.” 

“I shall indeed,” Legolas hushly agreed, caressing the bend of his knee. His ministrations accomplished, he spread out beside his friend, then latched a loose hold around his glistening torso. Elrohir similarly wormed a strong arm beneath him to cinch him close, though both assured that the other’s splendor was still alluringly displayed. “Would you spend, moren vain? Are you aching?”

“Nay, tis quite a pleasant sensation,” Elrohir commented. “The tension imbues one with a delicious feeling of potency, one I would linger on awhile.”

“You are balmed and glorious, gwador,” Legolas complimented, raking the sterling length of him. “My errant Sinda wiles cannot allow you to simmer too longly, else I may find my end from the very sight of you so godly in grace.” 

In response, a rumbling moan writhed through his strapping peredhil, his argent eyes darkening with lust despite his earlier claims of contentment with his current, slow-burn state. Though Legolas teased a tickling thumb up and down his fuzzy navel, Elrohir settled himself back into a sizzling complacency and foist brilliant silver eyes on his tormentor. Behind the wall, Elladan blast out a final, growling vulgarity, such that Legolas flushed at its sounding. Yet the curse also fired his dormant arousal, such that rivulets of creamy spume began to stream down from the pursed head. With a twist of hip, he was oozing over Elrohir’s outstretched leg, tantalizing close to dousing his friend’s purple erection. 

Taking salacious note of this, the elf-knight anted-up the bawdiness of their conversation. 

“Tell me, my brave one,” Elrohir wondered. “What do you make of your brothers’ exploits about our fair valley? For ones so long sheltered and so dedicated to propriety, I have heard such tales… We have even seen rather compelling evidence that they have learnt much of wantonness, away from Greenwood.” 

“Who am I to judge them, from here in your bed?” Legolas repliqued, though his mind instantly flickered to Losgaren masterly fucking that maid. “They are bolder than I first suspected, nothing more.” 

“Have they shared some tales with you?” Elrohir inquired. “Urged you to tumble a giddy maiden or two?” 

“We do not speak of such things,” Legolas explained, though was not upset by his questions. “Tis not our way. I cannot even pry a scrap of information out of Lathron, whose tongue must be burning to speak of Erestor. Yet, despite my proddings, he keeps silent. Out of fear, no doubt.” 

“I wish Elladan were so conservative of tongue,” Elrohir mused. “I pay audience to his every thrust and stab, yet the following morn he cannot wait to regale me anew with the whole torrid tale. Some sobriety would suit him.” 

Legolas considered this awhile, then remarked: “I wonder if any know of our… relations.” 

“Please do not fret, Legolas,” Elrohir forewarned him. “I received a caution from Ada. But even when most stern, he could not managed to stifle the glimmer of cheer in his eyes at news of my carnal explorations. Both he and Nana have worried so over me… over my chastity and my reserve.” 

“I would hardly call one who steals into my bed each morn to fondle my nethers,” Legolas snickered. “Nor one who ends each night with our fevered grind by the fireside *reserved*. Quite the contrary.” 

“Tis your perverse influence, wood-elf,” Elrohir shot back, nipping him saucily on the ear. “A quick sunrise fisting is barely payment enough for the scorching dreams I nightly endure.” 

“Dreams?” Legolas demurred, grinning rather wolfishly. “I have heard naught of scarlet dreams.” With a nudge of knee, he kicked Elrohir’s legs further apart, then sunk himself between them. After an incendiary look at his ruddy-cheeked lover, he hovered tauntingly above the darkling elf; the vapors of steam wafting from his lust-scalded skin coating him with a sheen of sultry sweat. A goading smirk twisted his pink, snarling lips, as Elrohir began to shiver with breathless anticipation. “Confess yourself, peredhil.” 

“Most gladly, maltaren-nin,” Elrohir purred, then moaned outright when Legolas spread himself out over him, their hard members sheathed in the same silken press of skin against skin. He grappled for sentience, then plotted out his tale. “I am lost in the Great Greenwood vastness, with naught but my steed following my careful steps. The day is hot; but as I fear attack, I am still swathed in clammy raiment. I come into an open glade… and am suddenly surrounded by the most beauteous band of warriors I have ever seen, bows raised to strike. They are luminous under too flattering Anor, and I flame with desire for them. Every one resembles you, Legolas, even more than your own brothers, though the captain *is* you, purely you, and I am wretched with longing for you. You come forth to examine me, touching and… stroking wherever you please. When you pull off my tunic, I think you will abuse me, and I am not entirely mistaken.” Panting fitfully, Legolas began to undulate his hips in a devastating rhythm, yet cautiously doling just the right amount of friction, so they would have enough will to keep their need checked until the climax. “You lash my arms behind my back, the bristly rope scraping my wrists. Yet you will not remove my breeches, allowing the heavy material to rub me to full, aching hardness. Your keen eyes immediately note my stiffness and you scoff, shoving me ahead. You are so close behind me, as we march, that I can smell your sweat as it permeates the forest air, that particularly fresh musk that maddens me so. When we must take care and walk in close quarters, you… you press yourself against my backside, at times letting your own massive engorgement rest in my hands. I cannot help but palm you, stroke you when I can.” 

“*Valar*, Elrohir!” Legolas growled, thrusting hard against him. He felt the first surge of orgasm blaze through him, but he held fast, though ferocious with need. “Finish it!” 

“We come to the river, and the company strips to bathe,” Elrohir continued raggedly. “You drag me into the woods, ostensibly to rope me to a tree, but instead… you push me hard against the trunk, then stagger back. You tare off your tunic, pry your breeches open, and display yourself for my famished eyes. Then… then you begin… you please yourself, tempting me, taunting me with your loveliness! I thrash about, desperate to rip out of my bonds, but you force me back, and then… then… by *Elbereth*, Legolas, you flay my breeches open and… take me in your mouth…” 

With a wilding groan and a near sundering quake, Legolas spent viciously across his stomach. 

Yet no sooner had his softening shaft been milked of the last of its singeing seed, than he shot down over the edge of the bed and fervently palmed his shocked lover. Saving the niceties of foreplay for a less urgent night, Legolas suckled the slick head of his erection for the briefest of seconds, before sucking him into the velvet heat of his mouth, giving visceral life to his most erotic of fantasies. Elrohir was barely allowed a dozen merciless bucks before he fired off the most primal completion he’d ever known, rendered witless in its wake. 

Amidst his vacuous, flirty babbling, Legolas cradled him close, relishing the chance to lavish tenderness upon the darkling elf he adored. If this was but the overture of their carnal explorations, he could not possibly conjure up in his simple Greenwood mind what pleasures the midsummer might bring them. 

* * *

The lonely song of the nightingale did nothing to soothe Elrohir’s savage restlessness, as he lay prone atop his bed’s indigo coverlet upon a sultry midnight. The pallid moonlight danced with the swishing shadows of willow boughs across his floor, the faint breeze that wafted in rife with the spice scent of jasmine, which bloomed about the ivy twisted through his balcony trellis. The darkness about his bedchamber seemed to bristled with discontent, as if provoked by the bleakness of its master’s mood. 

With the coverlet drawn, the sheets would still be warm from their loving; pregnant with Legolas’ snowy scent, which would later serve to comfort him. Yet the last, softing whiffs of cornsilk on the pillow did little to console him, not when abandoned to his ever-preying fears by a lover concerned that his brothers would discovered them, if he did not return to his bedchamber in anticipation of their planned morning hunt. Elrohir, in his petulant foulness, cared not if the Greenwood princes knew of them, not when Legolas was supposed to be twined hotly to him, dreaming of the loving they had so recently, and so opulently, engaged in. If this was but a bitter taste of the absent years to come after his archer’s training was complete, then Elrohir wanted none of it. He *wanted* to wake to those mercurial eyes upon him, to downy lengths of skin cocooning him tight, to teasing lips and to comfy caresses, to a lover as sure as the dawn’s break. 

Yet twas his vulnerability to the wood-elf’s too ample charms that afflicted him all the more. 

Their exercise in sensual exploration had been quite virtuously undertaken, but Elrohir was beginning to rue his naivety. Had he truly believed he could embrace one so dear as Legolas in body and in mind, but not in heart? That nary a sliver of his soul would be lured to the prince’s innate radiance? Yet while their coupling would smolder like a solstice pyre, their couple-hood was an impossible feat, even for two such accomplished elves as they. Beren and Luthien had less obstacles impeding them! The relations between Greenwood and Imladris were tenuous at best, to say nothing of the Shadow’s threat, the countless years of separation, the quest that Legolas will most certainly embark upon, and the ellyth promised him *should* he live. The future before them was an amorphous, endless black, that no manner of wishing could alight. What if he mistook incensing desire for awakening emotion and in further years, after some decent maturation, he was forced to cleave his friend’s heart in twain? What if he himself suffered such piercing heartbreak at Legolas’ unwitting hand? How could they dare, with such odds against them? 

If, indeed, Legolas would chose to so dare. His friend gave so generously, so amply of his efflusive heart that Elrohir was tempted to suspect him smitten. Yet he was too eager to delve into this delusion, too desirous of such ready deceit. Better to focus his efforts on dissuading himself of his intuition’s acuity, best to fortify himself for their breaking. Five long years stretched out between this swarthy night and that despairing darkness; no warrior of worth would leave his defenses weak, his fate to chance. Best to bed down with reality, best to pray for sleep’s balm, for there were greater evils at large in his fraught land and he was vital to their conquest, as was his golden friend. 

Not until Shadow’s fall could he even consider such a happiness, not until a time of peace could he think to settle himself to whatever blessing Elbereth would then bequeath him. 

Yet none of these black musings, nor his wretched desire for rest, seemed to rid him of terror, of foreboding. Resolved to some stealthy action, he hopped up to his feet, grappled on some bed trousers and a light shirt, then scooped up the Iluvanargroth from within his hidden coffers. He had never quite managed to solicit Erestor’s permission to keep the heft volume awhile; as such, he thought it best to sneak the book back into its pile under the cover of night. He doubted that Erestor would prefer his dusty, stuffed office to his elaborate chambers for his trysting, so Elrohir was assured of several thick walls to muffle the accidental creaks and clops he might effect. 

After tidily shutting his bedchamber door, he moved smoothly through the torchlit halls, cautious to avoid passages too near to his parents’ chamber, or Glorfindel’s roost. When he swept past the banquet hall, he marked the minstrel Lindir within, enjoyed a quick nibble after his performance in the Hall of Fire, with the famed Balrog slayer himself at table, along with several of the elder Greenwood princes. Elrohir was somehow invigorated by the challenge their sleeplessness presented. Though the Library was a considerable distance from the Lord’s residence, if a sound caught Glorfindel’s attention then the princes would join him in ferreting out the trouble, which only added another delectable layer of endangerment to his ruse. Schooling his emotions, as any proper soldier would, Elrohir hastened down the dim corridors and sped through the garden, examining the shimmering, stained-glass windows of the Library for the sparest glimmer of light. When he saw none, he crept up the steps, then slipped as cleanly as a cat through the door.

After striding through the first barrier of stacks, he stopped cold. 

Not only was the hearth lit, its flickering glow imbuing the rest area with burnished warmth, but Lathron and Erestor were curled quite cozily before the fire; their state of undress, even swathed amongst the blankets, all too telling. While Erestor was tucked into the corner of the couch, reviewing some documents by candlelight, Lathron, burrowed in wooly softness, reclined against him, dozing the heavy sleep of the sated. The image they evoked was so tender, Elrohir was mightily struck, wondering if he and Legolas were so comely in repose. 

Then keen emerald eyes were upon him, and he could do naught but skitter over to the waiting armchair. 

“Forgive my intrusion,” he whispered. “I but wanted to return…” 

When Erestor spied the title of the book, he could do naught but blush. 

“I had not missed it,” the Loremaster smirked, with palpable bemusement. “If you would yet keep it awhile.” 

“Nay, we are… I am… done,” he stumbled over his reply, entire gardens of roses blooming upon his cheeks. 

“The entire work, in but three day’s time?” Erestor inquired slyly. “Perhaps I have wooed the wrong Prince of Greenwood.” 

“You said you had not missed it,” Elrohir countered, though regretfully his embarrassment would not abate. 

“Indeed, I did not,” Erestor smiled softly, unable to resist caressing the crown of Lathron’s golden hair. The fifth-born prince was deep in slumber, and did not stir. Elrohir, afterwards, would remember this doting gesture and understand that it was meant not merely as an affection, but to test his wakefulness. “There are some matings so instinctual, so elemental that they need no further enlightenment.” 

Elrohir could not stifle a fond smile of his own, at his longtime friend’s contentment. 

“I am glad of your fulfillment, gwador,” he remarked. “That your long-abused hearts have found wholeness in the other’s grace.” 

Twas Erestor’s turn to flush, at his appraisal. He retorted hushly: “Is our love so naked to the casual beholder?” 

“None could mistake such a golden feeling between you,” his former charge told him. “You are luminous in the other’s presence. Even now, you shine.” 

“I have cause to shine, now,” Erestor chuckled. Setting the scrolls aside, he snuggled his lover closer in, blessing his brow with a long, giving kiss. “I think I will keep him. They treat him so cruelly in Greenwood… the King will count his abandonment a boon.” 

“Is he resolved to stay?” Elrohir asked, surprised at the delusionment one so wise as Erestor seemed to be afflicted by. 

“He will see the reason of it,” Erestor concluded, more to convince himself. “He must. If naught, he returns to Greenwood at his peril. His Adar has made clear that he must stifle his affection for males, that he must, when his turn comes, marry the one chosen for him. But my tender one could never do such a thing and live on. Not before the promise of such bliss as we could know.”

“Yet he is a proud child of Greenwood,” Elrohir commented, but softly. “His character forged in adversity, his rearing fired by deprivation, honor branded in his very soul. His place is there.”

“His nature is too defiant to subsist under such restrictions,” Erestor explained, but without condescension. “He is not like the others. He cannot live with the obscenity of Thranduil’s rule, with his tyrannical measures. The King has already warned him that if he is caught again…”

“Even the King of Greenwood is not such a fool as to banish his own son,” Elrohir objected. 

“Banishment would be a privilege, in such dire straights,” Erestor underlined. 

“What father could do such a thing?!” Elrohir snorted, then caught himself and quieted. “He may be brute, but he must answer to his wife.” 

“In times of darkness,” Erestor insisted. “There are many ways for fiendish minds to resolve such a dilemma. He is a soldier, like the rest, and every mission in the defiled Mirkwood is doubly treacherous. If I, who know little of battle strategy, can think of means…” 

Elrohir swallowed hard at the implications of his grave argument. 

“And Legolas?” he asked breathlessly. “Is he so imperiled for dallying with… with one of my rank, lineage, and gender? Should I break with him?” 

“The King knows well what transpires in our dulcet valley,” Erestor tempered him. “Tis but in Greenwood that their behavior is judged. Fear not.” 

“And if he is discovered there?” Elrohir rasped, terror drying his throat. 

Erestor sighed longly before replying, cinching his beloved tightly to him. 

“Legolas is for the quest,” Erestor informed him, somewhat testily. Though he was not cross with his former charge, he did fume at the King’s well-known arrogance, his deliberate ignorance of the truths of elven making. “He could mate with an orc and Thranduil would look away. Even one so fatuous as he must assure the continuance of his people, must counter the Shadow’s threat with one of Silvan glory.” Erestor paused, unsure of whether to continue, to reveal the entire, unsavory plan. “Legolas’ betrothal is a feint, pen-neth; tis no more than opportune politicking, a way of satisfying unruly nobles about the Greenwood. He is not meant to spawn an heir. He is not even meant to marry.” 

When the slap of realization hit, Elrohir burned with a righteous fire. 

“His own father cares not if he survives!” he spat. “If the Shadow is defeated, then one of his line falls to legend. Even if Sauron rules the earth, a Silvan elf will have his laurels. It matters not if he returns… merely that his martyr sets off to trumpeting and cheers.” 

“Indeed,” Erestor seethed in his own right, at the injustice, at the paucity of heart in one oft so bold. “You must love him well, Elrohir. You must gift him every grace in your care. He deserves every comfort, every pleasure available to him. Tis not merely victory at stake… but his very existence.” 

Mightily sobered by this shocking truth, the elf-knight fell pensive awhile, loosing himself in the flames. Erestor, for his part, cuddled to his threatened love, hoping to take some sustenance of his own from his warmth, from his balming presence. 

Rising to depart and resolved within, Elrohir left him with a solemn vow: “I swear I will not spare him any joy, nor do ought but dedicate myself to our shared passion. I will give him everything I dare, and make his time here a treasure that will replenish him for ages immemorial. I will give all I am, all I know.” 

/Except my heart,/ he inwardly stole back, instinctively knowing this to be a matter of his own survival. 

* * *

One would have thought a dragon had blazed through the valley, as the middle forest fumed with cottony clouds of smoke, billowing forth from the meadow behind the dense flock of trees. With the ceremonial pyre lit and the bountiful sacrifice made, the wind bore the scent of cinder, of ederwood, and of animal flesh, as a flaming dusk descended. The paths below his balcony were peopled with all sorts of prowling predators, the denizens of Imladris fierce with the spirits of the birds and the beasts into which they had transformed themselves. Soon, both the jubilant Noldor and their gawking Sindar guests would gather around the magicked fire to pay raucous homage to the midsummer, to their continued fortunes in these days of relative peace. 

Legolas so brimmed with excitement at the crackling atmosphere about him that he almost leapt down from his balcony and raced off to the glade. Yet he could hardly do so without his dearest friend, partner in ribald mischief, and lover-to-be, who no doubt fitfully awaited him in his own bedchamber.

As the first of the wizard’s sparklers lit the sky beyond, Legolas darted back within. 

After donning his bony crown of deer horns, he stood proudly before the mirror, raptly examining his appearance for any frays or flaws. Though he was rarely one to dote over his dressing, he wanted to be perfect for Elrohir, who he knew would be decorated to the full measure of his devastating potential. They had not disclosed what manner of beast they would embody, leaving the tantalizing element of surprise, but Legolas had an inkling, shrewdly derived by some offhand comment of Elladan’s. He did not doubt the twin princes would similarly adorn themselves, twould be an offense to the Valar otherwise. 

He himself played a mighty stag. Other than his horn crown, he wore naught but a pair of form-fitting velour trousers, painted to resemble flanks, legs, and hooves. The seamstress that had made his garment had chosen tawny colors that suited his flaxen mane, which hung wild about his bare shoulders. As his bronze body had been anointed with tainting oil his skin shimmered like copper ore, his nipples, lips, and eyes varnished with a golden pomade. The lids of his eyes were traced with an ochre-hued kohl, to mimic the doe-look of a deer, while various scripts, marks, and primitive symbols were thusly inscribed over his entire torso. 

He was fleet, willowy, an elemental power. He was the god of the forest. 

A sharp knock sounded on his bedchamber door, followed by a multi-voiced peal of giggles. Yet twas not his sextet of brothers he expected, when he bade the rowdy beckoners enter. 

“Legolas!” Lanthir trumpeted, as they swarmed around to admire him. Though their costumes were less ornate, they had all risen to the occasion, each choosing, as if by some serendipitous cosmic plan, a breed of horse, elk, hart, or deer. 

If they did not look so like to him, Legolas would never have believed these were the same brothers he held beloved since infancy. They fussed and flattered over him like a clutch of tipsy hens, complimenting every aspect of his brash appearance, from the meat his training had pumped into his strung muscles to the regal cut of his chin. More cheerful than he had ever seen them, they pushed a goblet of syrupy cherry wine upon him and bid him drink deeply, which, after a testing sip, he did. He liked the first draught so much, he summarily downed the entire cup, which roused a hardy shout of solidarity from these strange, ensorcelled creatures that had possessed his brothers. He gestured for them to seat themselves, which they were only too glad for, then placed himself in their circle, perched on the edge of the bed. 

The wine was strong! Within moments of his imbibing, he felt its mercurial stream rush through his veins, infusing his body with quick adrenaline and dulling the edges off his nerves. He was more patient with the second cup, wanting his night of revels to be long and merry, but yet he found he could no longer stifle the spiky need to be, immediately, with Elrohir. Yet when other would he have the chance to enjoy his brothers so fresh and so lackadaisical? He swallowed back his excuses and chose to wait out their company awhile, when Lorindol – Crown Prince of Greenwood, renown dignitary, and elegance personified – lit up a snout of pipeweed. 

Legolas was instantly agape. 

After a long, nearly sensual suck from the pipe mouth, Lorindol blew out a twisty plume of smoke. His second puff was even more opulent than the first, a lazy stillness descending over him. The scent of grass, of the purest bark and of something altogether unfathomable wafted about them, as each brother in turn took a generous toke. When at last Luinaelin nudged the pipe over to him, Legolas took the implement reluctantly, glaring at it as if handed a steaming spider’s egg. Some of his brothers chuckled at his expression of mild distaste, while others were too blissed to mark him. 

“If the chirpy halflings indulge, Legolas,” Lathron reminded him. “Then there is nothing to fear.”

“Twill but temper your ardor some, pen-neth,” Losgaren added. “So that your energies may be better conserved, so that your spirit may last out the long night.” 

“Hannon le,” Legolas thanked them, before gently inhaling from the pipe’s spout. 

He coughed out a cloud of the sweet smoke, to their great amusement, before managing the fumes on his second attempt. He dared not take a third, as already he felt wonderfully lax and light, as if his lissome body were lithe as air. Lithbrethil and Lanthir, at his sides, began to pet his hair, caress his arms, and tickle the teardrop slope of his ears; he suddenly felt as if he were floating. His brothers had never been so attentive, so affectionate, yet he was so enraptured by the warm feelings coursing like honey through him, he could not rightly complain. This companionship, this commonality was what he’d always craved from them, though he could not think what had changed to so provoke them into such blithe comraderie. 

Then, when Lorindol spoke, all became clear. 

“We have heard, lass dithen, that you will know loving this night,” the eldest remarked, with import. Lithbrethil and Lanthir drew closer to him, weaving supportive arms around his waist. “The innocence of another Greenwood prince lost to fair Imladris.” 

“We come not to chide, Legolas,” Lathron answered his unspoken protest. “But to assure ourselves of your compliance.” 

“The price of defending the Mirkwood is dear to its nobles,” Losgaren elaborated. “In the coming centuries, before the Shadow’s defeat, you will know strife, torment, agony, humiliation…” 

“We cannot spare you these troubles, tor neth,” Luinaelin stated outright. “But we can encourage you to indulge while you can, to bask in this night’s revels, to fortify yourself against the darkness by knowing joy, light… the act of love.” 

“Tis our best defense against the creeping Shadow,” Lithbrethil murmured. 

“Know that we approve your choice, Legolas,” Lanthir informed him. “The younger prince of Imladris is a wise soul. He will prove a fine companion to you, in friendship, in warfare, and in loving.

“Yet we, also, would have our share of indulgence,” Losgaren warned him. “We, too, must fill our stores of passion, this night.” 

“If we are to forget your adventures, once returned to Greenwood,” Luinaelin noted wryly. “Then you must prove equally blind to our dalliances.” 

“What’s born in the vaulted sanctuary of Imladris,” Lorindol instructed, with an imperious tone. “Remains buried in the valley wilds. Are we agreed, calenlass?” 

Legolas beamed a glorious smile at them, then trilled: “Most heartily, gwenin!” 

“Very well, then,” Lathron concluded, with a wink that suggested they would speak more of this in private. “We wish that your revels be merry, lass dithen.” 

“Indeed,” the others seconded, as an altogether more urgent knock clanged the door in its frame. 

“Come out, come out, O Fair Prince of Greenwood,” Elladan sang out from behind. “The enchanted glade awaits us!” 

“Come within, you crazed Princes of Imladris,” Legolas beckoned, as the dear company about him snickered. “My brothers would bid you good cheer!” 

With a gleeful shout, the two swooped in as stealthily as the falcons they’d dressed themselves as. None of the seven Silvan princes were not affected by the devastating sight of them: their sleek trousers fringed with fabric talons, the silver sheen of their sinuous torsos, the glittery blue paints that marked them, the fletches of charcoal that blackened their eyes, and the feather wings that crowned them. Lethal beauties that struck, like the sharpest of prey-birds, to the core. 

At the bright flare of passion in their brother’s eyes, the Greenwood princes leapt to their feet. After a genial signal from Elladan, they hooted with ebullience and flew after their able guide, ruddied for the revels by the emboldening cherry wine. Elrohir fluttered closer to his striking intended, equally smitten by the archer’s choice of virile attire. Their molten eyes ranked unctuously over the other, their breaths ragged, steaming the air. 

“You could verily soar about the heavens this night, star-rider,” Legolas praised him, just inches away and aching to pounce. “Your beauty entrances me so, I might never recover myself.” 

“As I would escape with you, my one of such feral majesty, to forever gambol about the forest,” Elrohir extolled. “You are luminous with the radiance of Elbereth herself, Legolas.” 

“Come, then, and wander with me,” Legolas entreated him. “Be wild with me. Be one with me, my dearest Elrohir.” 

The golden prince had his answer in a smile of such beatitude, he thought Earendil himself had shot down from the midnight sky to alight the face of his grandson with the Silmaril’s brilliance. 

They twined fingers bristling with excitation, then blazed out into the night, to flirt, to feast, and to find themselves in the forest deep. 

* 

Elrohir had never savored anything so luscious, so delectable as Legolas’ tongue, pickled and purpled by tart cherry wine. The pin-pricked texture, the slippery underside, the rosebud tip, and the slithery muscle, all kept within a cavity juiced with peachy moisture; to delve within was a unique decadence, one suited to this delirious night, one deigned to him alone. 

After the resplendent feast, the revels had begun in earnest. Bodies thrumming with rapture’s promise sprung, wine-sozzled, from their seats into the dancing fray, swirling and swaying like ingracious birds, stomping and braying like beasts on a rampage, frolicking under the panoply of incandescent stars in dizzy tribute to Eru, the One. The jovial minstrels strummed out an ecstatic rhythm, one no incensed elf could long resist; the effulgent celebrants soon ringed the bonfire like a halo of shimmer and sparkle around the sun. 

At table, Legolas had been only too proud to show off their intimacy, to Greenwood brothers and to Imladrian royals alike. His behavior during the light conversation after their supper had skirted the scandalous, sneaking onto the back of Elrohir’s chair and encircling him in possessive arms, licking up the edge of his ears and nibbling the slope of his neck, whispering incisive comments about the more fatuous nobles to him and veiling emphatic snickers at their fumblings in the dark of his hair. He was held so tight against his spritely wood-elf that the rabid beat of his heart pulsed against his spine, infecting him with his mercurial fervor. By dinner’s end, his every limb was aching to skip, to sprint, to soar off a cliffside with the stealth and speed of his falcon spirit. That Legolas bristled impatiently behind him, sheathing his emergent erection between the taut, trouser-covered buttocks of his backside, fired him further to dance; if only to burn off some of their lusty excess before later bedding down. 

When Legolas’ fiendish fingers brazenly cupped him just inches below the table’s edge, his bright silver eyes begged his Lord Adar for permission to escape. 

Elrond blinked, smirked, and they sped off, gambling as colts loosed in an open field. 

The rest was raucous, mindless sensation; the singe of the furious fire, the prickle of cooling sweat in the night air, the wilding whirl of the dance, the unctuous surge of intoxication, the branding clutch of Legolas’ hand in his. They spun about for countless hours, pausing only to quench themselves with bottomless goblets of berry wine and to prolong their exertions with heady tokes of giddying pipeweed. 

During one such excursion, a bold enlightenment dawned upon him. The true blessing of Legolas’ care, of their carnal experimentation, was an irreplaceable comfort with himself, with his place in the stratosphere of elven society. Elrohir had never before felt so amiable towards his fellow Imladrians, so unafraid of their indauntible flirtations and so coveted by their lecherous stares. The comely couple was groped by each friend that came to wish them well, hugged overlong and uxoriously admired, but this only made them understand the preciousness of the very private experience they would soon engage in. They would bequeath to one another what no other could possibly hope to deserve, a treasure so exceptional it could only be given once, only be won by the worthiest of hearts. 

The seventh prince of Greenwood was just such a worthy soul, whom he trusted beyond compare. 

Twas then that his mighty stag stunned all their gagging suitors by dragging him out of their clutch, shoving him brusquely against a nearby table, and claiming his mouth in an incendiary kiss. The feast of plump lips and meaty tongue that followed only left him famished, as if even such a succulent embrace could do but little to satisfy. By the craven stare that pierced him after Legolas broke away, his wood-elf was also ravenous; Elrohir shivered with delicious anticipation, not a whit of fright warning him away. Though the darkling elf wore the agile plumage of the predator, he was, this night, most undoubtedly the prey, and thus would lure his majestic lover into the woodland haunts. 

With such a gleeful caw that Legolas was startled back, he flipped atop the table, winged over its broad length, swooped down over the far side, and flew into the forest. The elf-deer caught up with him but a few paces past the treeline, bounding onto his back, riding him far into the hollows. Their gasps and giggles sobered, however, once they neared the sacrificial altar, still fuming with the charred remnants of the Lord’s offering. The keens and cries of ardent lovers echoed about the misty wood beyond, having abandoned the revels early to pursue other, more adult enjoyments. Latching their fingers, Legolas lead him forth, by shadowy couples kissing, gouging, grinding, their every groan in molten celebration of the balmy midsummer night. 

Still crowned by the crude entwinement of horns, Legolas was a titan in their midst, a force so brash and elegant the very blades of grass bowed to ease his passage. When they swept into a clearing, the moonlight bleached his porcelain skin with an eerie luster, every slink of his sculpted frame as if crafted from ivory. The darkling elf found he could not distinguish the glittering cast of his diamond eyes from the celestial canopy above, though their brilliance did little to mask the craven light within. Without a twinge of regret, Legolas stripped himself of his trousers, then stood tall, naked, for Elrohir’s approval, in his own form of self-offering. Painted with primitive markings, shining with the Lady’s own radiance, as yet innocent of the feral world of mating, he was an elf immaculate; of purest gaze and of ripest potency.

All of a sudden, Elrohir was wretched with desire; his mouth sizzling for the taste of him and his loins manfully engorged. 

Legolas outstretched his arms, welcoming, beckoning. 

He pounced. 

They tumbled, tipsy with mirth, into a downy thatch of grass, their flush skin somehow slaked of steam by the feverish press of the other’s satin pelt. For all his sacrificial dramatics, Legolas quickly took able charge of his most thorough pleasuring, felling his senses with kiss after sultry kiss, suckling his neck lax, scratching his nipples with naughty teeth, and mining the musky wealth of his navel. Elrohir nearly seized when the soft of his thighs were laved with alacrity and his sensate sacs mangled, until he began to ooze copious amounts of seed, which was then almost dotingly licked off. Yet Legolas had become too shrewd a lover to simply swallow him down and be done with his first spending. 

Instead, he sat back on his heels with a sly smile and watched his exposed lover squirm with need, the crisp air menacing his erection with electric pricks and sparks. Crazed by his audaciousness, Elrohir wriggled and writhed, desperate for contact. With an enraging slowness, Legolas grappled for his trousers, retrieving a slim vial sown under the waist hem. He dangled this before Elrohir’s captivated argent eyes, pushed off the stop, then poured a glutinous stream over his lap. Assuring himself that the darkling elf attended to his every salacious croon, he worked the viscous oil over the swollen length of his engorgement, every glint of his eye telling both of the exquisiteness of the sensation and of the deflowering that would soon follow. 

Despite himself, Elrohir began to quake, wanting the fullness with acute desperation and fearing the slice of the initial breach in equal measure. Seeing his distress, Legolas took his mouth with tenderness, delving and plying until his lover was liquid beneath him. The golden elf did not quit his caresses, even as his thickly oiled fingers slid deftly into his most sacred crevice, kneading him expertly open. By the time he was painstakingly sunk into, Elrohir was staring up into eyes so wet with caring, so fluid with adoration, that he needed nothing less than their most fervent union, which was so quietly achieved he barely marked the pain. 

“Moren vain,” Legolas praised, in a gush of hot breath over his face. “I will never know another such as you, star-rider, never find a blither sanctuary than in the bliss of our mated bodies.” 

“Legolas,” he moaned, but could not manage more, as his wood-elf began to thrust and his vision went gloriously red. 

The first jolt was jarring, sharper than expected. The second scraped unexpectedly, but Legolas felt it as well, then withdrew to baste himself again. He truly thought the third would braise, but instead the long, patient stroke of it made his toes curl and he instinctively lifted his hips for more. He did not quite share Legolas’ relishment of the action, until his golden friend gathered him up in his arms, bucking up in fierce, trenchant penetration. Elrohir crowed with disbelief upon his subsequent impalement, as a bolt of excruciating pleasure lit him with the peerless aura of ecstasy. With a blazing smile of triumph, his wood-elf set a manic pace, himself enthralled by this primal rapture. A smoldering tension mounted within them as they flamed together, mouths scorching from gorgeous kisses, hands grappling for a more intimate hold, bodies lacing tighter and tighter still. 

The rip of his erection across Legolas’ hard abdomen became nigh unbearable, until Elrohir cursed out his climax, collapsing to the ground as the pulses of pleasure wrung their last of him. Above him, Legolas spent on a sob, pumping him full of scalding seed; his eyes glistening with such swollen sentiment Elrohir could not bare the sight of them. He gazed up into the darkling skies and whispered a grateful prayer to Elbereth; Legolas did the same as he spread languidly over him. 

Both took shelter in a lengthy silence, Elrohir lost in the wash of ecstasy that still coursed through him, Legolas cowered by intense, unmentionable feeling. The elf-knight held him, but did not embrace him; stroked flattering fingers through the flaxen sheathes of his hair, but did not fondly nuzzle his golden crown. Such affections had their place, in his woozy estimation, to perform them here was to court a visceral misunderstanding of his intent in coupling with his dear friend. 

For though they were lovers, he did not want to be tempted by an impossible love. 

Yet he was not so dim as to refuse to recognize that Legolas was increasingly fraught. Though oft bold in action, the Greenwood prince was by far the gentler of the pair, unused to and misunderstanding of certain subtleties of regard; no doubt a product of his strict upbringing. While loathe to disabuse his friend of this sterling view of life, which he found utterly endearing, Elrohir knew this was the time to school him as to the nuances of their relationship. Legolas had entered into their pact knowing fully of his platonic intentions, he simply needed a careful, bruise-free reminder of the terms of their initial agreement. 

To this end, he rolled them aloft, holding imperiously, yet also mischievously, over his startled friend. He smacked a few noisy kisses over his brow, nose, and lips, then plunked himself upon him and rested his chin on the center of his chest. His smile was playful, charming, and unerringly enchanted, most importantly quite obvious in its eagerness for more. Legolas could not help but blush a vivid rose, proud and humbled that he had so pleased his lover; by his bashful eyes also quite emphatically interested in experiencing Elrohir’s passion for himself. Yet within those reflective aquamarine pools was a ripple of hesitation, not regret but an inner caution that to give himself thusly would be to incite even greater swells of emotion, which would again go unanswered. Wary of this, he demurred awhile, absently flicking the bristles of a lock of Elrohir’s hair up and down his angular cheek. 

“You are lovely,” Elrohir complimented, which only reddened him further. “I had not thought to be so… consumed. Twas rather… astounding.” 

“Aye, twas,” Legolas replied, glowing in memory. “Was there much pain?” 

“But fleeting,” Elrohir responded. “After a brief twinge, there was only… heat. Scorching, braising, roasting heat!” 

Legolas chuckled, then sighed. “There is a chill about. I like not the damp. Would you bathe?” 

Only then did Elrohir note how their markings had smeared, how the kohl bled from their blackened eyes. Even thus, Legolas was such an elemental beauty that he could not be ought but breathtaking. Yet he, too, was sticky with their spendings and wanted for the soothe of the bath. 

“Aye, that would be well,” Elrohir answered him. “But I must warn you, wood-elf. Once you are cleansed of your tribal paint and burnished with golden splendor, I will not long be able to resist your Silvan grace.” 

“I would that you be naught but affected, peredhil,” Legolas snorted defiantly, tossing him gamely off and springing to his feet. Yet even this small punishment chafed his dignity. He was, however, still soft enough to offer him a hand. “Mark well by whose skills you were tumbled. Who was first to claim you.” 

After grappling up, having accepted the proffered hand, Elrohir gripped it ardently and pressed it over his heart. 

“I would have had no other, Legolas,” he swore, meeting his friend’s eyes with strength and with conviction. “The honor will forever be yours.” 

“Aye, mine,” Legolas nodded, gone pensive anew. “I will cherish it.” 

With that, he went searching for his fallen crown of horn, a keepsake if ever there was. The drowsy murmurs of sated lovers buzzed in the woods around, as the midsummer moon kept somnolent vigil above. When Legolas returned with his belongings his crystalline eyes were clear, his face resigned. Though he smiled as sweetly as ever and even stole a quick kiss from his mouth, something in his manner had changed, some merriment dimmed, some mischief smote, some magic no longer ensorcelled him. He caught up his hand as they meandered towards the Homely House, then moved to weave an arm around his waist, but still seemed leagues away. 

Elrohir dared not ask what inspired this distance, preferring to retreat into his own light trance, at one with the shroud of night that enveloped them. 

* * *

Imladris, Year 221, Third Age

A cold autumn wind swept fierce through the dormant valley, puckering the Bruinen with wrinkly waves and ruffling the leaves into a cyclonic flurry. The ominous overcast of clouds above broke only for the Silmaril’s light, its scintillating daggers slicing a silvery seam through the black sky. Despite the midnight chill, the invisible essence of Vilya tempered the natural world’s garrulousness; the tempest that would brew dissipated before gales could blow, storms rage or thunder crack. Instead, the woozy forest swished and swayed, lulled into sleepy languor by the frosty breeze. 

Bright as a beacon atop his bedchamber balcony, Legolas took succor from their anesthetic song. He had long befriended the trees of the Rivendell valley, who doted over him as one of their own. Even while his own resplendent Greenwood was so tragically sickened with shadow, the elms, oaks, willows, and ederwoods of Imladris would always be here to replenish his wandering soul, to remind him of his purpose. In these last, hallucinatory years with his first lover, he had been so besotted by his darkling graces that he had almost willingly forgotten his earlier life, the necessities of his existence, his hallowed destiny. Through the trees Elbereth would woo him out of complacence, away from their smoldering bed and out into the grieving wilds, where but paces past the borders of this blithe sanctuary lurked suffering, pestilence, and devastation. The forest that had berthed him could no longer croon a dulcet lullaby, as these comely woods did, to soothe his wounded heart. Soon they would only hiss and seethe, their most bountiful melodies relegated to the archives of elven memory. 

His Greenwood was dying. 

As a flood of feeling pooled into the cavernous core of him, Legolas feared that, before long, he might share the majestic forest’s fate.

He would depart for home in but a week’s time; twas not a moment too soon. Though every day of his five years in Imladris had been swollen full with joys, challenges, and keen maturation, he recognized with a preternatural foresight unknown to most wood-elves that the lethal-bladed hope of the Silvan tribe would not be forged in the billowing smoke of this Noldor hotbed. The Balrog-slayer had fired him into a decent warrior’s mold, but only strife would sharpen him flinty, only suffrage would score his muscles lean of indulgence, only the most pummeling strictures would pound him into an elf worthy of his deigned mantle, of defeating Sauron’s minions. Whenever the endless battle had scraped his bones clean of mettle, he would perhaps return for some quick rejuvenation, but he could not allow those brief stays to weaken his resolve. More than ever before he knew himself to be an elf of Greenwood; its seventh-born prince, its devoted lover, its peerless champion. 

Love had possessed him with the most potent wisdom imaginable, that with his every action he must prove himself worthy of it. 

Yet he was not fool enough to believe his love matched nor equaled by the one who held his heart, a truth so gutting, so visceral, it had led him before the trees, this night, in search of some faint trace of harmony with the elements of this valley, if not with its youngest prince. In the chamber behind, Elrohir was spread across their tousled bed like a panther on the scorching veldt, lost to sated slumber. His beauty in such a peaceful state was so lush, so regal, that the sight of him made the archer ache with adolescent fervor, though he knew his own golden charms would never rouse such emotion in his friend. Legolas had been ensnared so gradually, so unwittingly, that the thought of it still routinely shamed him; especially when their soft, sensual loving made his eyes glisten, when in their throes he wept at the sheer exquisiteness of their mating. Though he would offer his comfort, a part of his dark lover would always slip away, off to some safehaven that maintained the sanctity of his soul’s flame. 

Legolas knew implicitly that there was only one path into his effulgent spirit, an imperiled road that only the purest heart would survive, with trials requiring no less than the ultimate sacrifice.

His very self. 

This time in Imladris had given him a full, awful and awe-filled view of his intended future. No less than Sauron’s defeat and banishment from existence would provoke the necessary changes to his world, revolutionary transformations that would see the Greenwood restored, his Ada-King’s contrariness appeased, his brothers freed of their reins, and, most vitally, his beloved convinced of his worth. Even one of his mercurial nature recognized that he would have to wait-out millennia for the sparest glimmer of opportunity for this startling achievement, that even ancient Gondolin was not built nor raised in but a day. Years of torment awaited him, physical, emotional, and spiritual, but here in Rivendell he had discovered the abundant recesses of his own strength. In Elrohir’s bed he had tasted pleasures he could only pray to deserve eternally, been nourished by their constant friendship and enriched by his relentless care. These were the weapons that empowered him, the lessons that would shield him from grief, abandonment, despair. When in the crucible of the Dark Lord’s defilement, he would burn with a righteous flame, one kindled in his unrequited love, one nurtured through centuries of self-deprivation. 

How could such a valorous force be denied? After such a heroic feat, how could the Valar ought but grant him his dearest wish? 

Alight with the propitious glow of youth, with vociferous Silvan pride, he praised the outspread forest with a poignant song, then bowed before the sage trees. As he crept back into their bedchamber, a sliver of moonlight cut through the cloud, sparking in the quicksilver eyes that met him there. Elrohir’s face was pale as the pillow its cheek pressed to, both resigned and impassive. He regarded him as if a spectral vision, a phantom returned to haunt him anew. Struck by this first and only glimpse of his lover’s sadness at his imminent departure, Legolas could not help but envelop him in tender arms, though fighting the urge to soft a caress over his white lips and thus reveal the daunting depths of his adoration. Elrohir gripped him back with unexpected ferocity, his breaths ragged and his brow creased from restraint. 

“Seven days,” he mused forlornly. “One for each of your brothers and the last, your own.” His voice was further siphoned with every word, until Legolas had to cinch him close just to hear him. “Forgive me, but I cannot bear it.” 

“Come now, my brave one,” Legolas feigned hardiness. “Was’t not just last week that you goaded me into a hayloft tumble by listing all the guardsmen who had already offered to succor you in my absence?” 

“Twas merely to fire you,” Elrohir sighed. “I but wanted the full throttle of your thrusts.” 

“And did I please you proper?” Legolas smirked, fondly remembering the downright molten encounter that insued. 

“Ever do you please,” Elrohir responded, softing a kiss over his pink mouth. “You know it well.” 

“Then why so solemn?” Legolas queried gently. “Though we part soon, and longly at that, twill certainly not be forever. Some dull conference or quarrel will occasion my coming to Imladris, or perhaps the Mirkwood will be brightened by your own delegation. Then we will escape to some quiet nook, and marvel at the other’s carnal evolution in foreign beds.” 

Of a sudden, Elrohir went still as a hunter in the high grass. After a pregnant while, he carefully withdrew from Legolas’ arms, then stuck him with a pained, skittish stare. 

“Legolas,” he whispered, and in that one naming the Prince of Greenwood knew all. Yet even the acute strike of recognition could not spare him from the actual blow of Elrohir’s subsequent revelation. He had thought, somehow, in the passing of years, in the concomitant discoveries of their rambunctious youth, in the glories of their bed-play, that they had formed an unbreakable attachment, that their friendship was permanently altered. That they could never go back to a platonic fraternity. “This parting is like the direst punishment. I have suffered it for months. Since the setting of our last solstice night has my countenance grayed with the ever-shrouding knowledge of your departure. Twould be folly to continue thus for centuries untold, coming so emphatically together only to be torn apart again and again… and to what end? You are Thranduilion! There can be no promise, no future… no matter how much we both wish for it.” 

Legolas was as shocked by his argument as by his insinuation. He asked: “Then… then you… wish for it?” 

Elrohir sucked in a grating breath, shut his eyes. He wanted, so desperately, to earnestly give him the lie. From its initial agony would eventually dawn peace. He rallied every force within him, and spoke with conviction. 

“I dare not chance such an occurrence,” he told him, his voice grave. “Distance would give the illusion, the pressures about us an urgency. Who could say what would truly be felt, under such bleak circumstances? Would you chance our kingdoms on some flawed emotion? The future of our peoples on some heartful dissimulation caused by strain? Naught can wash our blood clean of strife, of nobility, of our warring heritage. Indeed, I would have every strength at my disposal in this terrible fight against the Shadow. Your friendship would be a boon. Our togetherness… troublesome, at best.” 

“Your loving these long years has hardly weakened me,” Legolas challenged, even as the excruciating truth sank its teeth in. “I have never felt so bold, so fierce, so…full.” 

“I do not deny that we both needed to know of loving,” Elrohir hotly reasoned, chafing some at his misdirection. “I above all quite crucially required such encouragement. How could we bear the struggles of a warrior’s life otherwise? But we cannot be deceived by our youthful stirrings, Legolas, nor by the mingling of friendship with desire, nor by the tranquility of the sanctuary of Imladris itself. To prolong our relations into future meetings would only end in heartache!” 

“I am an elf of my own making,” Legolas insisted. “I bow to no King and serve no master, other than the people of Greenwood and the pulse of my own heart!” 

“A gallant declaration,” Elrohir conceded. “From one not past his second majority. We are soldiers, gwador. We are but pawns in the grand strategy about…” The elf-knight huffed, tears threatening. Twas fiendish work to convince such a golden one of what he himself did not entirely believe. Yet Legolas’ future was at stake, he could not give in to his own selfishness. “To say naught of my own rank. I am Prince of Imladris. What if rumor spread of our secret couplings? Even should they rumble below Thranduil’s earshot, I would be regarded as naught but a Silvan concubine.”

Legolas glared at him with blatant disgust, his red anger flared. 

“Have I treated you thus?!” he demanded, his innards liquid with revulsion. He curled away from him, gathering himself like a snarling cat against the headboard. “Have I dared flaunt our relations even before your own twin?!” 

“Do not bark at me,” Elrohir retorted, but guarded his tone. “Tis the very people you cherish that would brand me so cruelly, who expect every form of allegiance from you.”

Legolas still glowered at him, but swallowed down this hard truth. 

“You wound me, Elrohir,” he stated, diminished. 

The darkling elf approached him, every inch hesitant, until he could reach out to stroke a soothing hand down the side of his pinched face. Legolas flinched, but once, then gave in, his muted eyes budding with tears. 

“Tis so,” Elrohir admitted. “But only to spare you a much greater anguish.”

“You cannot say what will come to pass,” Legolas assayed, defiant to the last. 

“Nay, I cannot,” Elrohir acknowledged. “But I would say or do the vilest thing imaginable, if I believed such a regrettable action would save you from whatever form of pain or suffering. You must trust, Legolas, that I do so now. I want but your ease. Your contentment.” He gulped down a steadying breath, then pressed on. “Do you trust in me?” 

“With my life,” Legolas immediately replied, forgetting his anger and crushing him into a hug. 

He was a warrior not yet grown to his full strength. Little wonder, he reminded himself within the warm folds of his elf-knight’s arms, that he was so easily bested by the most convoluted of reasons; but he would not allow this ineffectual defeat to discourage him. Beneath his friend’s bland statements of support simmered a deeper longing: one to be wholly and utterly dissuaded from this ridiculous notion of companionship without sensual love. Though his forward path was bleaker, lonelier than expected, he would persevere. Once he’d achieved his glory, nothing would keep him from Elrohir’s heart. 

“Have I spoilt our last few nights?” Elrohir timorously inquired, suddenly trembling around him. 

Legolas chuckled softly, suckled a sultry kiss from his mouth. 

“Perish the thought,” Legolas dismissed, dragging them down into the silky sheets. “If I am to span an eternity without your touch, then I best fill my coffers with the care of the elf I treasure so, until they overspill with your decadent loving.” After some thought, and even more kisses, he added: “You will forever be my precious one, star-rider. Forget me not, in the span of centuries to come.”

As he succumbed to the thrall of his dark lover’s rapture, he silently buried the last of his innocence in their reckless coupling, in that staid sanctuary Imladris, in the very soil of the Rivendell valley.

 

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Three 

Imladris, Year 1137, Third Age

The glacial stillness of deep winter encased the Last Homely House in a glassy, shimmering coat of ice. The vaulting roofs were fluffed with dense layers of powder, like the wings of a snowy owl, their swooping eaves clawed over by incisive icicles. Though well-trod paths were packed down enough for decent usage, the stark forest was long bedded down, impassable until the springtime thaw. 

Twas through just such a pristine field of fresh-fallen snow that the Sons of Elrond made their way up from the barracks in the hush of early evening, having spent a lengthy afternoon sparring with the members of their guard. The eerie glow emanating from the frost-webbed windows of their father’s study promised a steaming bowl of broth, a frothy mug of cream tea, a spitting hearth before which to warm themselves, wooly blankets knitted by their doting Nana and sage reflections from their pensive Adar. Though as renown for their gameliness as for their brashness, the twin princes of Imladris liked nothing more, when such a somnolent season was upon them, than to bask in the simplest pleasures of family life. The world at large may be in embroiled in contentious fraction and in impossible disarray, but sons of such troubled heritage knew better than most how precious was their father’s advisement, their mother’s succor, their sister’s blithe company. Enclosed within their cherished home by the blighting elements, they were ever grateful for any chance to enjoy a peaceful night with their dearest ones. 

Unlike in the northern realms, the power of Vilya kept the lion of harsh winter tamed to a kittenish deportment. Elrohir trudged rather amiably through the sparkling fluff, bedazzled as ever by the magical season. Billows of his heavy breaths ghosted over his face, the prick of chill on his moist lips cooling his hazy exhalations. Beneath his fur-lined vestments, he was drenched with sweat, but still he bounded through the banks as gingerly as an elfling. He loved the winter, brief as the season was in lush Rivendell; loved the sleepy, whispering wilds, the quiet eves in familiar company, brushing down the horses beneath the damp hayloft and drifting into hours of intense contemplation tucked into the library couch. 

After ten long months of gallivanting through foreign realms and hostile territories with fingers gripped raw around the hilt of one’s broadsword, even the most bloodthirsty of warriors would welcome such a stay at home; the brethren were never so imperious as to forget how they were privileged, and thus relished every moment of being nestled in their dormant vale. Yet the time was not without its industry. Elrond and his advisors held a weekly gathering of elders, where any elf of age could speak openly of strategies, grievances, or improvements to any possible concern, from their warfare to their way of life. These lively sessions had yielded quite a few stunning revelations, which in turn fired Elrohir’s own penchant for innovation. Unlike Elladan, who was a warrior bred and embattled, he yearned for intellectual debate and for engaging challenges. He had a keen mind for the execution of elaborate projects, be they architectural, societal, or governmental, which Elrond had recognized early. Thus, the first snowfall ever heralded their annual, private conference, where his father would task him with the preparation, continuation, or completion of some sprawling project. This year, the barracks required refurbishment; a rather enormous undertaking, which he had spent the afternoon considering with his patrol captains, while Elladan put the younger soldiers through their paces. A rough plan had been hastily scrawled out; he presently bristled with eagerness at the thought of unveiling it before the exacting eyes of his discerning Adar. 

Elrond alone understood that, while Elrohir was certainly gifted in such matters and the development of such skills was a great boon to a future lord of the realm, no small part of his son’s excitement about such momentous undertakings was how entirely they staved off the loneliness that constantly beset him. Though he was friend to many and kind to all, Elrohir was not, at heart, a terribly social elf. Few other than his twin could be counted so close as to be his bosom companions – his tutors, some of the marchwardens of Lorien, a stablehand he’d known since elflinghood, a line of Rohirric horse-breeders – and most of these he so rarely frequented. He was devoted to the clutch of warriors he lead with Elladan, but they were hardly familiar beyond the orc hunt. His station did little to ease matters, as so few courted his attentions without underlying intentions. While Elrohir had from his earliest years intuited the kind of dispassionate detachment necessary to excel in diplomacy, this hardly endeared him to some of the more generous noblemen, most of which he inevitably detested. 

The near relentless distance from the one who he did trust, adore, and confide in above all others save his twin, the lethal and ethereal seventh Prince of Mirkwood, was a looming shadow over his cheer, though with maturity and responsibility the pain of their separation had lessened. Though their visitations were as frequent as possible in such unsure times and their correspondence was undaunted by the precariousness of their soldierly duties, the need of Legolas’ companionship was a constant for Elrohir. He never missed a chance to spend even but a day with his most revered friend, no matter what dignitary was inconvenienced, what mission was postponed, what supply of good was waylaid. Indeed, he flourished so in Legolas’ company that none could rightly fault him the indulgence, as twas one of so few for the gallant and courteous Elf-Knight of Imladris. 

As he and Elladan clomped up the eastern steps from the main courtyard, knocking clumps of snow from their whitened boots, they could not help but chuckle at their sprightliness. His brother paused in the doorway, unmindful of the cold rushing into the residence, attentive to the silent night. Elrohir, too, had thought he’d heard a horn in the far distance, but there was naught audible but the whish of soft wind through the stagnant forest. With a shrug, he gestured Elladan within. 

Elrohir had barely unclasped his cloak, when the clarion clang of the proclaiming gong echoed up from the far gates. Elladan shot him a wondering look, as they swept back out into the moonlit darkness, the torches snuffed by the severe frost. Neither could imagine what noble would brave the bite of winter to journey to their valley unannounced, but as this was indeed the Last Homely House, they had cause enough to think the friendly intruder in dire need of sanctuary, if not some more remedial shelter. They braced themselves for the worst, disbelieving any sign of hope and ready to charge forth in aid. 

A pale rider loped up the central path and swerved drunkenly around the frozen fountain, as Glorfindel, Erestor, and Elrond himself emerged from within, clad in naught but their evening robes. From their blank, stern faces, they neither expected such a sudden visitation, nor thought well of the tiding. Elrohir knew implicitly that the Healing Halls were already being warmed, stretchers hastened through dim corridors and medicinal herbs brewed over a roused hearth. They watched, helpless, as the horse staggered to a halt some twenty paces off its mark, its flanks crusted with ice and its hooves wretched with grime. The cloaked rider was slumped in his seat, clutching both the reins and a huge bundle with his last strength, his breath so light that not a vaporous wisp fumed from beneath his hood. Glorfindel and the twins marched forth with calm, cautious strides, attempting to distinguish the soldier’s colors in the sterling cast of night. 

With a treacle cough, the rider threw back his hood, a radiant spill of hair cascading down his back. 

Legolas, a spectral vision amidst the blackness.

Astonishment washed over his blanched face, followed by a heartbreaking relief. Woozy, he lurched perilously to one side, his weighty burden sagging him off his ailing steed. All three warriors gasped, then raced forth to catch the swaddled figure, whom Legolas reluctantly relinquished to them. Only the impossible sight of Elrohir loosed his visceral grip, though it was Erestor’s woeful wail that fully woke him to the moment, as the face of the wounded elf he carried was revealed to their anxious eyes. 

By his blue-tinged visage, Lathron’s soul flame was but a pile of fuming embers; the blank of Mandos beckoned by the instant. 

“He is gravely wounded,” Legolas rasped, his throat parched from their arduous ride. “*Saes*, my Lord, you must attend him…” 

He could say no more, as he himself fainted away, tumbling off his horse into Elrohir’s waiting arms. Yet the jolt of the fall woke him anew; with his last reserves of energy he found the strength to stand, once almost entirely supported by his worried friend. They slowly followed after their elders, who had instantly flown into action, spiriting Lathron away to the Healing Halls, Elrond already bellowing sharp commands and Erestor caressing his beloved’s hand to warm him. Behind, Elladan was clucking over the state of the horse, to whom he cooed like a long lost lover. 

“Are you injured, gwador?” Elrohir demanded of his golden friend, concerned by his near emaciated state. “What in Elbereth’s name has befallen you?” 

“I rode without cease,” Legolas mumbled, fighting exhaustion. 

“From *Mirkwood*?!” Elrohir exclaimed. “Have you gone mad?” 

“If Elladan was so close to death,” Legolas reasoned. “You would have been fired by the light of the Silmaril itself, to see him safe and whole.” 

With a compassionate nod, Elrohir acknowledged this: “You have done well, my brave one. Fear not, Ada will so rattle him with skill that he will seize back his very life from fading!” 

“He must,” Legolas bleat, as they shuffled into the surgery. “He *must*, Elrohir.” 

A nurse had already brought a cot piled high with blankets, a washing basin, and a night shift for Legolas, who Elrohir eased down into a seating position. He knew his father would want to question him, before long, as to the cause of the vicious slice across Lathron’s abdomen and the brutishly pummeled bruises that purpled his limbs. Erestor was charged with warming him, as much with his fea as with the bright cast of torchlight. The Loremaster kissed and petted his love with frazzled abandon, whispering heartfelt troths, vows of eternal affection, anything that might bind him to this aching existence. By this time, Glorfindel had brewed a hot mug of remedial tea, which Legolas sipped dully, observing the healer’s ministrations with numb detachment. 

He was, Elrohir esteemed, too tired to feel. 

Elrond spied that the archer’s voice was somewhat restored by the drink, and so began his inquiries. 

“Legolas,” he asked softly, turning his head to regard him directly. “I must hear of it to properly care for your brother. What has occurred?” 

With a weary sigh, Legolas gave his report in soldierly fashion, as if this disciplined manner of recounting was the only way he might keep counsel. 

“A warg attack, from the western fields,” he stated, his roughed voice barely quavering. “Naneth was being escorted back from some of the further settlements, where she has kin. Twas Lathron that lead the guard, as Adar never allows her to travel without one of us to… to protect her.” When the archer began to shiver almost imperceptibly, Elrohir cinched his arms around him. “Though he and the guard fought with every ounce of their might… they were overwhelmed by the foul beasts. She was slain.” Though he nearly chocked on the words, he finished: “Nana is dead.” 

The entire hall went still, bowed their heads, in deference to the fallen Queen of Mirkwood. 

Elrohir, incensed by this execrable tragedy, hugged fiercely to Legolas, though his friend barely acknowledged his efforts. Momentarily setting aside his own ministrations on the valiant Lathron, Elrond crouched before the haunted prince and gathered his frigid hands in his. 

“You have my deepest sympathies, Prince of Mirkwood,” the Lord apologetically related, in the formal manner Legolas seemed to exclusively respond to. “Indeed, I am honored to treat such a one as your courageous brother, who battled the very Shadow for his own tenuous life. Yet to do so, I must know every possible detail. I know it pains you vividly to continue on… but for Lathron’s sake, you must. You must tell me all.” 

“I know it,” Legolas nodded absently, then rallied his senses to the task. He suddenly sensed the elf-knight’s crushing arms around him, the warmth of Elrond’s hands seeped into his creaky fingers. Beyond, Erestor was rapt on him, desperate for the vital lessons that would save his sinking beloved. “One of the servants had escaped to the village, which sent a patrol to fetch the wounded. Lathron was the only one who still breathed. They rushed him to our stronghold palace, along with my naneth’s… her corpse.” 

“Go on,” Elrohir urged him, pouring as much of his own heat as he possibly could into his worn friend. 

“They had guessed well enough what had transpired, in the glade,” Legolas recounted. “The wargs had not gotten through unscathed. They reported their findings to my Ada-King, who flew into… I have never seen such a sight. Even through my own grief, I was… shocked to my very core. He wrenched Lathron from their carry-bed and… and beat him furiously, relentlessly. Only the combined strength of my three eldest brothers managed to pry him off… The bruises are not from the attack, but from… He banished my brother, who had fought so bravely, who was found lying before my slain mother, drenched in her very blood! He cast him outside the palace gates, left to the venomous wilds!” 

“Out in the cold!” Erestor growled, jumping to his feet as if to charge off and strangle Thranduil himself. “In the… the dead of winter!” 

“Twas the cold that preserved him, meldir,” Elrond assuaged him. “Were we not in the bleak season, he surely would have perished on the road. The Valar have blessed us with the most glacial winter in memory, and, as ever, there is precious reason for it.” He turned back to the woodland prince, his tender face indicating that he would not much longer press him. “But how did you possibly escape, Legolas. You must have done so swiftly, for he is barely stung by the elements.” 

“My brothers and I knew immediately what must be done,” Legolas continued. “They distracted Adar, whilst I prepared. We each knew that I was the only one he… he might forgive, in time. That I have his favor.” This last was spat out with seething disgust, the only emotion the prince seemed capable of allowing himself. “I even had a moment alone with… with Nana. I am so grateful for their care...” 

“Deservingly so,” Elrond gently smiled, not wanting to stir his blackest feelings when his own survival was in slight doubt. “You are a true champion to her, Legolas, to have acted so boldly. She would not have wanted any of her children so vilely abused, least of all her dear Lathron.” With a paternal gleam he could not rightly stifle, Elrond enveloped him in his own warm embrace, though ever conscious of the need to return to the wounded elf in his care. “But your task is now complete, pen-dithen, your brother delivered to my Homely House in due time to restore him. I swear to you now that that will be done, that he is not so far gone as to be past saving. Your furious flame has fed him well over the long days of your journey here, his spirit will thrive again. But you, Legolas, have been drained past all endurance. You must rest now, so that you can be by his side, when he chooses to wake. You must replenish yourself, so that you might be further comfort to him.” 

Ever the dutiful warrior, Legolas nodded groggily at his instruction, then collapsed so instantly against Elrohir into leaden slumber that the elf-knight was aghast. 

“Ada!” he bleat, but Elrond smirked reassuringly, pressing a soft, paternal kiss to both of their brows. 

At that very moment, Elladan slipped in, awaiting further orders beneath the arched entranceway. 

“My son, your friend is needful of tenderness,” Elrond explained to twin pairs of avid silver eyes. “He fea is perilously dimmed. You must take him to a ready bedchamber, dote upon him. Bathe him carefully, massaging every muscle and extremity with vigor. You must not only keep vigil over him while he sleeps, but for this night at least flank him, hold him, nourish him with your own vital twin-bond. If he wakes hungry, let him eat and drink his fill, but chewing slowly, taking his ease. When he is full, deny him, and sleep will take him within instants. If he suffers black dreams, rouse him as soon as possible and embrace him tight as any sobbing elfling, for grief threatens fierce. Repeat this as oft as necessary, and remain with him until he awakes to true lucidity, for he will not recall any of his slow restoration until body and mind are ready to face these darkest of day. Even if such a wakeful morn be three on from this coming, lonely one.” 

“We will not fail him, Ada,” Elladan swore, as Elrohir was already too embroiled in coddling Legolas to acknowledge his father’s commands. 

The elf-knight regarded his friend with glowing eyes, reverent at the feat of his astounding rescue yet so deeply sorry for the agony his mother’s loss had engendered. Inwardly, he vowed to see him whole again, renewed not just in bodily strength, but in undaunted spirit. 

The sheltering winter would keep them both awhile, until wellness was restored. 

* * * 

Three Days Later

Elladan had never witness such an animalistic devouring of a meal, not least by a pureblood elf. After gouging out juicy chunks of peeled fruit, ripping savory meats clean off the bone, lapping up even the crumbs of lembas furthest astray, and downing an entire bowl of broth in one long draught, as well as gulp after gulp of mead, his lips could not help but twist in a wry smirk at Legolas’ most visceral consummation of foods, though the wood-elf was still so entranced by sleep’s gauze that his glassy eyes could hardly register his friend’s mirth. Their Adar had warned them to force him to take his ease, but this hardly seemed possible without him gnawing off a finger or two, so ravenous was he for any form of nourishment. Elladan had heard from the nomadic bands of swordsmen that the Mirkwood supplies were severely dwindled in such a harsh winter; his soldier’s eyes hardly required further evidence than this heart-rending, though still somewhat amusing, display of voracity. 

Indeed, Elrohir’s ashen face told all of his trenchant concern not simply for his friend’s welfare, but also for the sustenance of the five princes yet waylaid in Mirkwood. Together, they had prayed that the others would come soon, that they would not remain locked in with that tyrant. Yet they also understood only too implicitly how faultlessly loyal were those of Silvan ilk, most vitally in times of strife. Even if they condemned Thranduil’s desperate action, they could not abandon him to the scathing grief he must be suffering at the loss of his mate. The Mirkwood King’s love for his wife was a thing renown through every elven circle; little wonder he was so grievously incensed at her slaying. 

Elladan added his own quiet plea to Elbereth that Legolas would not need return there, if only for the maintenance of his own brother’s sanity. Over the last three, endless days, Elrohir could not for the briefest of moments be pried from Legolas’ side, nor oft would he consent to their golden friend even being drawn out of his arms. The archer’s head was ever pillowed by his elf-knight’s taut chest, lulled by the steady beat of his relentlessly constant heart. Elladan merely acted as an enabler: carrying their leaden charge from bath to bed, tucking them back in, liaising between the bedchamber contingent and the Healing Halls, fetching blankets, meals, medicines, and books to pass the time. His unofficial duties were even more arduous, those that involved buoying Elrohir’s spirits with casual conversation, easy debate, and heartfelt assurances. Whomever judged warfare the most gutting test of a warrior’s mettle had never sat in sorrowed vigil over a sickly friend’s bedside. 

Legolas’ movements grew sluggish as his belly became brim-full, his arms sagging and his head drooping forth. Even in his dazed state, he had the wherewithal to shove his plate away, before laying down on the table top and drifting into the deeper stages of sleep. Elladan was glad to see the first traces of a smile alight Elrohir’s stern features, as Legolas looked as sweetly as an elfling after a strenuous day gambling about the gardens. His fears were also somewhat appeased by the sight of Elrohir nudging their charge to his feet, instead of transporting him outright, then guiding him between the velvety sheets, before joining Elladan in clearing the table. Although the shroud bed never left his periphery, Elrohir set about the task with an air of hopefulness, as this was the most abundant meal Legolas had consumed in his days there. Their Adar had remarked, during his examination of the woodland prince that morn, that as he would not be long in waking they should encourage him to do so by relenting some in their kindnesses, a concept he had thought would be rather anathema to Elrohir’s giving character. Yet he had been foolish to doubt his twin’s emergent sagacity. His brother was a marvel of compassionate sense, and yet his innate sensibility attuned him to even the subtlest nuances of need in those he cared for. While every nerve in his body most probably buzzed in protest of denying Legolas even so sparely, he was learned enough in healing to realize the wisdom of their father’s method. That he was able to so readily suppress his most compelling urges in favor of Legolas’ betterness spoke volumes of the lengths to which he would go to see his friend restored. 

As much as Elladan admired this trait, the potential consequences oft befouled him. 

One so well traveled, as well as so skilled in animal husbandry as he, could not mistake the primal tenor of Elrohir’s treatment of Legolas. Nor could he ignore how, even in the mire of a stress-mangled subconscious, their woodland friend intuited the difference between his caretakers and made for the one who mattered most. In sleep, he grappled for Elrohir until he was tightly held. He instantly recognized who coddled him, so much that he could be heard to whimper softly if Elrohir passed him, even momentarily, off to another. The archer clung to his brother as if his ownership was elementally deigned, as if from his first breath he belonged to him. Elrohir was no less protective of their patient, challenging their father’s decisions as never before, adamant over the veracity of his assertions, and insistent upon Legolas’ wishes, though yet unspoken, being yielded to. He simply *knew* what his friend would want, need, or prefer. There was no questioning his rightness, only the docile placation of his flinty temper. 

Yet Elladan wondered if his twin was even cognizant of his own behavior, if he himself realized he treated the woodland prince as his mate. 

In the hunt for bed-partners, Elrohir was often little more than a casual observer of the game. Though in the decades after Legolas’ adolescent tenure in his bed, nearly a millennia ago, he had entertained somewhat regularly, both their duties and his own preferences had made such indulgences sparse with the passing centuries. Even Elladan himself could not frolic as he once did; if he coupled now it was more for relief, or necessary warmth, than from sheer attraction. In wintertime, relations were more frequent and more lively, but their summers abroad were spent mostly in the wilds, grimed with orc’s blood, stinking of sweat, and huddling in the prime spot of their bed-rolls. Twas impolitic to bed too many sword-brothers whilst on patrol, thus his company had compacted to bed none. Other than the most gracious, book-learned, and luminous of the Galadhrim, the introspective Rumil, and a line of Rohirim he occasionally frequented, Elladan knew of few others who his brother had enjoyed; he was as frugal with his favors as he was with his biting wit. This tragic episode had illuminated much of his brother’s oft strange shades of character, though he had not fully considered how entirely Elrohir himself was aware of his devotion to the Prince of Mirkwood. The question of Legolas’ own feelings on the matter was another gray area, yet Elladan felt implicitly that this incident would be either the making, or the breaking, of them. 

He desperately hoped for the former, and feared the latter with every ounce of his fraternal concern. 

As they settled themselves languidly on the bed, flanking Legolas as ever, he considered how flagrantly he could prod his brother for some emotional confession. Elrohir kept no true secrets from him; what he was not bluntly told he guessed easily enough from his twin’s deportment. Yet this was a subject of utmost delicacy, his brother’s heart long steeped in delusion, in denial. Any confidence might ruin his chances, either by forcing him to focus too readily on what must be instinctual or causing him to conceal his more violent emotions deeper within the caverns of his heart. Regardless, in this instance he was as vulnerable to desolation as Legolas was to illness, so any advance of Elladan’s must be undertaken with strictest caution. Precisely the sort of mission one of his tactical stealth excellent in. 

As ever, the instant Legolas sensed Elrohir near, he burrowed into the heat of his embrace. With his body glutted, his fea now sought out a more essential nourishment in the blithe incandescence of the elf-knight’s soul flame. The woodland prince looked as softly as a sea-nymph stranded on a beach of white sand, his porcelain skin almost translucent against the rich royal blue of Elrohir’s shirt and his sylph-like hair splayed in satiny sheathes over the indigo coverlet. His brother flushed with pride, with faint embarrassment at how instinctively he was coveted by their somnolent charge, though he could not long withhold the tender kiss his planted in his flaxen crown, nor the consoling strokes he began to brush through the tangles of his hair. 

Yet even as he cosseted his princely friend, his mithril eyes were muted of some of their luster. When such a brooding mood beset him, gray-veiled confidentialities would not be long in coming, not in escalating into outright, though mild, depression. Both modes were of equally treacherous ground, Elladan would need be fleet of step to avoid falling into the more obvious pits of despair. Mulling over the circumstance as Elrohir grew increasingly somber, cradling Legolas like a babe fit for milking, he chose a conversational tone, but a rather serious concern.

“I had occasion to pass through the Healing Halls,” he remarked to his distracted twin. “Before I fetched our supper.” 

“How does Erestor fare?” Elrohir cursorily asked. 

“You make a pair of truehearts,” Elladan smirked. “He has not slept for days. Glorfindel says tis a battle each mealtime, that he must all but force him to consume.”

“Verily, Elladan, you are severe,” he snipped irritably. “I have eaten every meal set before me and have slept hardily each night.” 

“You have eaten the minutest portion that can sustain you,” Elladan softly countered. “And shut your eyelids to the blackness for a time each night. That is all.” 

“I take no exercise,” Elrohir retorted. “One who rests the day long finds little ease in nightly repose.” 

“Legolas is fortunate you still choose to bathe,” Elladan teased him, with a knowing curl of his lips. “Though I doubt he would shun your warming arms, even if you stank. Yet he might wake!” 

“Fiend,” Elrohir snarked, unamused by his jesting. “What of Erestor?” 

“His vigil is ended,” Elladan informed him, silver eyes rapt on his brother’s imminent reaction. “Lathron mended quite rapidly, with our Loremaster’s ferocious flame engulfing his fading spirit. He woke late this morn.” 

“Is he very troubled?” Elrohir hastened to ask, stunned by the prince’s early rousing. “Does he recall…?” 

“Aye,” Elladan told him. “He was able to relate a quite vivid account of the tragedy. He appeared sad, but did not weep. Indeed, he seemed rather peaceful. He said his naneth blessed him in her final moments, absolved him of blame. He did not speak of his father’s injurious actions against him, though he did inquire after Legolas. Only then did his eyes dim their resilient beam. Otherwise, he could not wrench his adoring gaze from Erestor. Twas as if the Loremaster had braved the winter to ride to his Mirkwood compound and fetched him from the gates himself!” 

“His trials are ended,” Elrohir whispered, thoughtful. “If his naneth blessed him, then his heart is eased from sorrow. Thranduil has made his feelings abundantly clear. Lathron never had many ties to tyrannical Mirkwood. They are free to love.” 

Elladan scrawled a mental note of this remark for future reflection, then snorted affably. 

“Love, they do,” Elladan smiled admiringly. “Erestor could not shoo us speedily enough from the surgery, when faced with the prospect of embracing his beloved. I pray their mutual cravings can outlast his recovery.” Elrohir nodded dully, a ponderous look to his noble visage. “Tis a pity Legolas has no sometime lover lurking about the valley. His grief is fierce. He will require many diverse forms of succor, to face such a black time.”

“Do you fear he will fade?!” Elrohir demanded, anxious. 

“In truth, I had not considered such a notion,” Elladan assured him. “As Ada has oft said, Legolas is of sterling character, of nearly preternatural self-possession. He will mourn her well, then lay her to rest within his heart. I simply sense that, in such a bleak hour, a lover’s care might prove… balming, to his wounded spirit. If tis but a distraction to him, then he might very well welcome such an involving distraction. The act of love can be enriched by so many shades of emotion. If the proper lover, one of kindness, of tenderness, of compassion, were to share his bed, then both might be… greatly moved by the tides of passion within. For certes, twould help restore him soonest.” 

After a longly silence, cool, penetrating eyes were foist upon him. 

“For one of such… random, voluminous trysts,” Elrohir wryly noted. “You are wise to many subtleties in loving, Elladan.” 

“As any competent hunter knows,” the elf-warrior calmly responded. “Observation is key to overtaking one’s prey. Much can be gleaned by applying such methods in the observance of elven relations, toren.”

“And yours are the keenest eyes I know,” Elrohir sighed, suddenly understanding every single implication of his brother’s stealth-tactics. “I will think on it.” 

“Yet that is the trouble, Elrohir, *your* trouble,” Elladan gently upbraided him. “Caution serves neither party in such torrid affairs.”

“You speak boldly for one who seeks his heart in every bed but the one most cherished,” his brother snapped. 

“If such a one were cradled sleeping in my very arms,” Elladan shot back, though without rancor. “I would require no prompting to claim him as my own.” 

Elrohir huffed testily at this, but shied his eyes from his brother’s view. 

After a long, silent tension, he answered only: “I’ve heard you.” 

With a weighty sigh, the elf-knight shifted onto the flat of his back, into an exacting contemplation of the vaulted ceiling. Even in deepest slumber, Legolas matched every move, until he was snugly tucked under Elrohir’s languid arm. Elladan observed them thus awhile, then rose quietly from the bed. 

Both would be better served by his absence.

* * * 

With a rambling groan, Legolas drifted into wakefulness. Yet he did not dare lift his eyes open, as he was utterly languorous with groggy ease. He hadn’t the merest, nor amorphous, nor perceptible notion of where he lay so indulgently cocooned, but, as this was possibly the most serene he had ever felt in the long duration of his brute Silvan existence, he was hardly raring to lodge a protest. The mattress beneath him was as supple and as buoyant as a maiden’s bosom, the pillows as plump. The sheets were as downy as the plumage of a newborn duckling, with the warmth of a white wolf’s insular fur. Trace memories of ache haunted his lax muscles, but he ignored these in favor of burrowing himself so far into the covers that only a thatch of golden hair, like a bundle of gossamer ribbon, was fringed over the fold. 

Twas within that dark, silken pod of sheets that he first remarked their scent, of such rich, sweaty musk that he nearly moaned in delight. The complex concoction of environmental notes that imbued the fragrance gave him clues to his whereabouts, which he now suspected would be far more wondrous news than previously, woozily expected. The boldest smell was of an earthy, ancient quality, like the seasoned bark of an aged ederwood tree, tinged with the effervescence of a rain-fed river. Yet the scent had the feral quality of skin that has smoldered with longing, a singeing pelt balmed again and again with lavender salve to cool its cravings. Added to the heady mélange was the faintest wafts of salt, of seed spilt in fervent desperation, not in the unctuous melding of worshipful bodies. Legolas knew the last scent only too intimately, as his own spare bunk must be rank with a similar stench, after so many centuries of solitary yearning. 

He was struck, then, by a revelation so astounding, it shot to the very core of his being. 

Twas the scent of Imladris that so flattered his senses, that culled him into such tranquil repose. Better yet, he had lapped up enough lengths of lavender-anointed skin to know that only the valley’s bashful elf-knight enjoyed such a bountiful fragrance. He was not simply coddled in a bed of grandiose opulence, but buried between the very sheets that were once stained by the blood of his first bedding. Elrohir’s bed, the site of the blithest expression of passion he’d ever known. Little wonder the swath of sheets around him was so soothing, their satin folds had ghosted through his most sultry dreams. Whether collapsed from exhaustion on the hard forest ground, huddled and shivering in the coarse fabric of a bed-roll, or worming his way into the sag of his lumpy barracks bunk, Legolas had routinely conjured for his cranky mind the illusion of this very luxurious oasis, which he had had the fortune to rest in for five gorgeous years. A time so laurelled in his esteem that none had matched it, not even his subsequent, though also fondly held, sojourns in the Rivendell valley. 

Purring like a glutted kitten, he wedged his nose between the pillow frond and the mattress cover, to better drink down the strongest source of the smell. The pleasure of such an obsessive act nearly made him queasy, though he was reluctant to crawl but a few inches upwards and refresh himself in cleaner air. The effect of the scent upon him was so immediate, he almost believed Elrohir himself to be there; a most vivid impression of his elf-knight, which even his sober, platonic presence could in all probability not attempt to rival. Though the strength of their immortal friendship ever moved him, he had not ceased to flame with purest emotion at every sight of the Imladrian prince. While he had long ago accepted the fact of their amicable relationship, his body was less convinced of his chaste intentions, as currently evidenced by the girding of his loins and by the spry arousal erected there. 

Even as he inwardly quarreled with himself over the propriety of attending to such an hotly imposing need, his spine prickled with forewarning. He knew the room beyond would tell the tale of his arrival in the wintering valley, of whatever incident or calamity had occasioned his advent, yet he could not rightly quit the decadent bake of Elrohir’s lofty bed to face condemnation, anguish, or despair. He wanted soft, warm, sensuous, the sweep of velvet hair across his chest, the suckle of pulchritudinous lips at his neck, the quaking thrall of caresses to his inner thighs. In his near millennia of abstinence, he had never once felt such a visceral need for his lost love, so effectively had he repressed his every desire for him. Yet cradled in the very bed that branded him with adulthood, he could not help but revivify the molten embrace of his incandescent elf-knight, play out the most potent moments of their long-ago togetherness in his mind’s eye. 

The whispery pad of bare feet over the carpet summoned him back from scarlet remembrance. Legolas opened his eyes to the gauzy dark, intent on discerning the identity of his unwitting visitor. He remained sunk deep in the satiny folds, hoping for some stealth. The sheets before him were peeled back, then a sinuous form slipped between them, silhouetted in the dim candlelight and unfortunately clad in light bed trousers. Yet he could not mistake the bristly strip of black up his taunt navel, nor the crimson scar of recent injury over his hip. Elrohir had written him of the knife wound suffered last summer, while ferreting abandoned orcs out of nearby nests; at last the observant familiar could somehow differentiate him from his identical twin. Not that Legolas had ever had any trouble distinguishing the two peredhil brothers. 

The elf-knight chuckled fondly, pet the bush of golden hair across the pillow before settling in. Legolas clearly heard the flapping pages of a book, as affectionate fingers snuck through his tousled locks, then began to stroke the back of his neck. The gesture was so unconscionably rousing, Legolas nearly announced himself with a grateful moan. It appeared he had no choice but to reveal himself, for in his roused state he could bear no further, however accidental, torments. Staging a loud yawn, he pawed the covers back from his face, then gazed drowsily up at his startled friend. 

Elrohir was veritably aglow with relief, instantly tossing his book aside and crawling down to crush him in a exultant hug. If in his full body press he was prodded by Legolas’ simmering erection, he paid the bold appendage no mind, instead tugging them up to recline on the pillows and grappling for a nearby goblet of water to refresh him. Once forced to move, Legolas vividly felt his weariness, whatever illness or harm that had caused him to be so gloriously waylaid. As he sipped the surprisingly cold water, Elrohir wasted no time in his thorough examination; no words needed be exchanged for this healer’s son to ascertain the state of his charge. When those exacting silver eyes rose to meet his own, Legolas smirked wryly; his knowing elicited the blush he had longed to see on those cheeks so sallow with concern. 

Even his most adoring mind could not have painted this image of Elrohir more comely. 

“Five days, Legolas,” the elf-knight gently chided him. “I nearly began to despair.” 

“Fret not, I feel quite thoroughly renewed,” he smiled, extending himself out on his back, his charms on full display. “Indeed, my remedial berth was of such extravagance I nearly thought myself passed to Mandos.” He was greatly encouraged by the way Elrohir propped himself on an elbow at his side, brushed a teasing touch over his chest, laughed deep in his throat at his sly remark. “Indeed, I am not yet entirely convinced of my wakefulness. Your regal countenance is such a heartful sight to me, Elrohir, I initially swore that I must be dreaming still.” 

Though he was loathe to prey on one who had so obviously worried himself over him, he could not resist how his flirtations were affecting his tender friend, who reddened even riper at his compliment. 

“Better than my first sight of you, maltaren-nin,” Elrohir hushly countered. “You were so gray and pale I feared you struck by a Nazgul’s blade. Even your snowy mare looked sprightlier, though sagging with fatigue.” 

“Forgive me if I caused you pain,” Legolas murmured, still wondering at the reason for such an arduous advent. Yet he intuited the only possible occasion for his sudden appearance at the Homely House gates. “I had not elsewhere to turn.” 

“Do not mistake my meaning,” Elrohir hastened to correct himself. “I would not that you have turned elsewhere, Legolas! I would not have had any other succor you in my place.” Brimming silver eyes searched his for understanding, when this was perceived, they spilt over. His slender pinks lips quivered, anxious for some unfathomable action, then were held back by an incisive glint of teeth. “Tis heartening to see you so well healed.” The darkling elf exhaled in a heaving gush, pressing his eyes shut against the too-luring sight of his lovely friend. “Tis… rather touching...” 

“Kiss me, dark one, if you so desire,” Legolas beckoned, but a hairsbreadth from the elf-knight’s rosy lips. “I have not been so long away as to forget the gift of your care.” 

In an instant, his mouth was feverishly met, its depths plundered by a famished tongue. Five long days Elrohir had had to coddle him, to dissuade himself of his rejuvenated longing for his ethereal friend. Five long nights he had lain beside him, enveloped him in unassuming arms, which inwardly begged to rove over his lithe, yet muscled frame, to map anew its clefts, sweeps, and most secret hollows. One so goodly as Elrohir would never think to impinge upon the sanctity of his slumbering being, but his endless proximity did mightily stoke the long dormant need to touch, to fondle, to penetrate; to be allowed free reign over the silken skin he had once adorned with his most incendiary attentions. Once blessed by a lucid Legolas, he gave in to these instinctive cravings with abandon, soon laving a slick, shivery trail down his panting chest. 

Those silver eyes had gone onyx black from the archer’s quiet order, reason entirely overtaking by broiling lust. Though Elladan had convinced him, a few days back, to lavish Legolas with bodily care, he had planned to accomplish this with a smidge more decorum. Yet it was beyond him to resist the nymph-like vision poured so salaciously, so beatifically across his bed. As he bit at puckering nipples, plied flush patches of skin, and lapped at the musky sweat pooling in his navel, he was further incensed by every erotic sensation. By the time he smeared the bud of seed across his enflamed lips and licked the savory cream from their plump, he was so possessed by want that he immediately swallowed down Legolas’ tumescent shaft. 

Legolas himself bayed out a ragged howl, digging clawed fingers into the ebony lengths of hair spilling over his lap. Elrohir sucked him hard, wild, as if crazed with intent, needing his eruption to feed his rabid hunger for his golden friend. Legolas thrust as well as he could in his weakened state, the opulent pleasure coursing through him so luxuriant, so intoxicating, he was soon awash in ecstasy. He crested in a blaze of crude, molten feeling, milked of every sizzling drop. 

Yet no sooner did he spend than an even more carnal need besot him, such that he crooned to his lover: “Fetch the salve, beauty. Finish yourself.” 

Elrohir had not yet done with suckling his sacs and his thighs, but did managed a disapproving grunt at his lascivious order. 

“Legolas, you are but hourly recovered,” he weakly objected. “I cannot think to-“ 

“Fetch it!” he vehemently commanded, his body yet live, writhing. Elrohir lurched over to the nightstand, grappled through the drawer, his fingertips grazing absently up his own straining length. Keen to cast a further spell of rapture over his doubtful one, Legolas let his sauciest thoughts tumble forth from kiss-swollen lips. “Tis so bleak in the Mirkwood, my brave one, so hopeless for one of my inclinations. I have longed for your touch as no other’s, Elrohir, felt so hollow… Even fraught as I was on my long ride, there were nights when I thought of naught but the press of your broad weight over me, the singe of your stiff member on my stomach as you grind, the fill of you sheathed so deep within. I must have that now, my lover, feel you within, know you even for such a brief while…” 

Elrohir’s eyes burned like mithril in the crucible of the forge as he regarded him, with desire, with reverence, with something irresistibly endearing. After generously coating himself, he lifted Legolas up onto his lap, refusing any notion of dominance or submission between them. They kissed hotly, copiously, as the elf-knight fused them into one effulgent being, not relenting his caresses even amidst his most furious bucks. As their pace grew relentless and his erection fired anew, Legolas gripped into his lover’s back as if to score his claim there. The tears burst so suddenly from his eyes that Elrohir could do naught but press their faces close, as a visceral completion thundered through them. 

Legolas’ shattering cry was not of sheerest pleasure, but of utmost devastation. 

“*Nana*,” he bleat, as he slumped into Elrohir’s waiting arms. 

By the time Elrohir curled them up against the headboard, he was sobbing fiercely, in the full onslaught of cruel remembrance. Despite his charge’s harrowing sorrow, the elf-knight found he could not bring himself to regret their intimacy. Indeed, even as Legolas vented himself of pent-up suffrage, he knew his golden friend had benefited from their loving, that tranquility would reign over them after this necessary storm. 

When, some while later, all his tears were shed, Elrohir’s intuition grew righteous. From within the shelter of the darkling elf’s securing embrace, Legolas regarded him with intense thankfulness, with something else besides, softing gracious, grateful kisses over every plane of his pensive face. As he had not rested so longly as Legolas had, his body wanted sleep before more loving, but he could not conscionably abandon his tender one in such a vital moment. Instead, he loosed his hold some, let Legolas cradle him for a change. The archer proved only too glad to dote upon him, his aqua eyes shimmering with plentiful adoration. 

“I have missed this,” Elrohir conceded timidly, surprised at the sharpness of his own feeling. “I knew not how, until…” 

“We vowed to part ways, to explore other paths,” Legolas reminded him. “Not to be forever apart.” 

“Nevertheless, I am astounded…” he stopped himself, thought better. “I hope… we might continue, for a time…” 

“I want nothing more,” Legolas assured him. “Tis such comfort, Elrohir, I cannot say…” 

“You need not,” Elrohir acknowledged, almost sheepishly. “I felt it.” 

“Indeed,” Legolas grinned, feeling foolish, but also surreptitiously content. “You have not said how my brother fares.” 

“He is quite well,” Elrohir told him, cursing his dizziness. “Erestor, I should say, keeps him well. They are fated for each other, I swear. Their love is so… admirable. I know not how Lathron ever brought himself to depart.” 

Legolas sighed, found new sustenance in his kiss. “He certainly has no reason to return.” 

“He asks after you nearly every hour,” Elrohir continued. “Despite his injury, he verily beams with pride! His champion, he names you. He is no doubt sleeping, but tomorrow… we must relieve him soonest of his worry.” 

“I had no other notion,” Legolas darkly agreed. “I must hear of it… even if it leads to further grief.” 

“His tale may surprise you,” Elrohir rallied. “Even in her final moments, she thought of your succoring. She left a message for you.” 

“Did she?” Legolas inquired, though he was hardly surprised. Indeed, the thought served to warm him, even more that Elrohir’s already soothing arms. “Then perhaps the telling of it may prove more bearable for him. He can at last release this… burden. Will you be there, after?” 

“I will,” Elrohir vowed. “I will not leave you longer than you may wish, and will stay near to hear your call. And after… that is, if you like… we can love.” 

“The very thought will bear me through,” Legolas smiled, as he sunk down into his arms. “As it has on so many nights away from you, star-rider.” Speechless at this endearment, Elrohir nuzzled his face into that golden crown of hair, hoping beyond hope to stave off his own wave of sorrow. 

Legolas, blissfully ignorant of any cyclonic emotions in the heart upon which he lay his drowsy head, simply thanked the Lady for this latest, most improbable blessing. 

* * *

As the swoop and sway of divinely strummed melodies soared up the buttressed ceiling of the Hall of Fire, to the heights of sublimity itself, the assembled crowd exhaled in rapt, musical satiation. Little was more worthy of their audience on this cozy winter’s night, the ardent minstrels before them and the spitting hearth to their side, both imbuing the spirited concertgoers with a ruddy glow of appreciation. While the strings strutted out a preening, predatory riff, the wood flutes shaded the chords with sultry atmosphere, only to be further enchanted by the swirling reverberations of the sorceress harp. The result was as heady a rapture as any he’d experienced out of his lover’s bed. 

From the throne-like seat in which he and Erestor were cuddled, Lathron marveled at how disparate the musical styles of the various elven peoples were. In Mirkwood, when not trumpeting marches of uproarious pomp, the court minstrels were lively players, skilled at balladry, sweeping scores to epic tales, and the raucous stomp of summer dances. While Lathron did not doubt the piping members of Lindir’s players could kick up more than a few heels, they also revered the artistry of music, performing elegant, oft dramatic, and intensely moving pieces to more formal assemblies. To his own great surprise, he found these understated nights of appreciation utterly captivating, though hardly more so than Erestor himself, who seemed to be entirely possessed by the striking orchestrations. 

Though a stray arm was cinched tight around his waist, the rest of his beloved’s slender body languished in their chair, his every nerve and muscle caught in a decadent swoon. He shuddered with every cathartic escalation, sighed at every return of the melancholy theme, and shivered in anticipation of the fleet flurry of notes that began each new aria. Lathron wished he could play his lover so well as these musicians! Although, truth be told, he had witnessed such throes quaking beneath him on more than one occasion. Still, he apparently had much to learn from the daunting minstrels; perhaps he himself should take up an instrument? There was one in particular that he might impress at… 

Smirking, he let his eyes troll the room, as interested in the audience’s fascination, ebullience, or evocation as he was in the orchestra’s fervor. He and Erestor were among the few who loomed at the back of the Hall, most had crowded towards the stage the instant they entered, though the Loremaster had assured him the acoustics were far more appreciative by the far walls. Similarly placed, but for entirely more dubious reasons, were Legolas and Elrohir. While both seemed to enjoy the music, the young princes appeared far more embroiled in stealing secret, eloquent glances at each other. When their eyes did accidentally lock, both stiffened, smiled with propriety, then hastily foist stern glares back at the minstrels, lest the other be somehow aware of the dewy gaze just beamed upon him. He doubted either friend was entirely fooled, though he did concede something to the power of self-delusion. Seeing was one thing, absorbing, digesting, and acknowledging another completely. 

Lathron was one of the few appraised of the recent resuming of their by-one-account torrid affair. After he and Legolas had hashed out every aspect of their mother’s untimely end, his brother’s tongue had been almost flaming with the need to confess himself. Both behaved quite soberly when in company, even familial company, as neither wanted to publicly confirm the fact of their relations. Neither wished to court a chorus of opinions on a matter in which they had not been entirely honest with each other, to say nothing of what they’ll admit to themselves. Lathron had long believed that they loved each other quite viscerally, though both were yet too skittish to broach such an insurmountable question as that of their continued, eternal togetherness. Neither, as well, seemed particularly keen to commit, nor intensely trusting of the other to protect their heart. So they groped about in the dark, screaming with their bodies what they could not dare whisper otherwise, until one day either fate would forever sunder them, or they would at last forget themselves long enough to pledge devotion. 

To be earnest, they did amuse him terribly. At times, he was hard-pressed to say which merried him more; Elrohir with his relentless giving and his sacrificial tendencies, or Legolas, with his silent glowering and his selfless ambitions. They were the very definition of killing their feeling with kindness. Less mirthful were the encroaching threats on their potential togetherness, which, if they did not soon forget their doubts and grasp madly for each other, may very well devastate any future plans. Indeed, he believed his brother was about to blunder quite disastrously, if their last conversation was any true indication of the painfully noble thoughts clouding his vision of the future. Lathron had resolved to covet his ear that very night, in hopes of shaking some sense into his valiant, yet at times infuriatingly nearsighted, little brother. 

Yet he could not deny how extremely beneficial such trysting was to his brother’s deportment. Though of utmost poise and courage, Legolas had become increasingly withdrawn these last decades, bereft of his usual, mercurial nature and altogether devoid of his mischievous streak. For a century, he had captained the southern boarder-guard, the most relentless, wearying, and foreboding appointment in the Mirkwood army. A hundred years spent on the Dol Guldur front could ravage even the most sparkling spirit; Legolas was hardly to blame for his sobering. While each of his brothers acknowledged that the youngest of their ranks was also the most accomplished warrior the Silvan race had ever known, that did not mean he should also suffer the lion’s-share of Shadow wrath. The King had even cut back his leave in recent years; Lathron had been fortunate indeed that Legolas had even been home to save him. The brothers had enumerated the many reasons for such strict measures, though they understood only half of them. Legolas may be meant for the quest, but his life should not be dedicated to that ambition alone; perhaps he would be better equipped to deal with his feelings for the Prince of Imladris if he had been exposed to more social situations. In essence, Lathron did not want to see his brother sacrifice such a potentially beautiful, and strengthening, relationship for duty’s sake.

Yet his brief time in Imladris had eased him such that his naughty streak did reemerge, due, without doubt, to the rather perspicacious influence of a certain, so-called elf-knight. 

His brother’s more wicked tendencies were in full effect on this lush night, Lathron observed with a downright impish smile of his own. As the audience at large was even more intently spelled by the magical sounds of the musicians, Elrohir and Legolas dared to twine arms around each other. The darkling elf in particular was affected by the haunting refrain, his lids drooping in rapturous appreciation of this swarthy movement. In typically wood-elven fashion, Legolas did not wait for privacy to play this entrancement to his advantage. He leaned in to his intoxicated companion, encircled him in strong, caging arms, then teasingly suckled his neck. Lathron could see Elrohir’s breaths rise and fall in time with the sensuous rhythm, his legs spread to accommodate an emergent arousal. Legolas shifted his body to guard his lover’s lap, but the hand that snuck below the waistline was evident enough. 

Elrohir bit his lips shut as he was cupped, tried vainly to nudge Legolas away, but to no avail. After a quick glance around them to assure himself that everyone was intent on the players, Legolas traced the teardrop slope of Elrohir’s ear, then repeatedly flicked the tip with his tongue, as he gingerly plucked breech-laces apart and slid an impudent hand down their front. Elrohir grit his teeth to barely stifle a gasp, collapsed his shoulders and lolled his head back, as Legolas began to pleasure him. His brother smartly took up the same, smoldering rhythm, whispering hotly into his lover’s ear of all the scandalous acts he would later inflict upon him. Elrohir grappled vainly for some hold over himself, incensed by the mounting, harmonious ecstasy that by now throbbed through every speck of his being, as fearful of the wilding cry that scratched up the back of his tongue as he was thrilled by the anarchy of the act being performed upon him. 

Legolas clamped a kiss over his mouth in time to stifle the first jolt that seized through him, though there were several more, each more violent than the last. Elrohir was finally allowed to cough and to gasp, as the audience around him burst into applause. Legolas’ grin was so wolfish his brother thought he might very well stand up and take a bow. Lathron snickered to himself when, after hastily fastening his breeches, Elrohir took the opportunity of their cries for an encore to drag Legolas into a nearby, shielded enclave, where only a mind of rare filth would dare imagine what such comely youngsters might get up to within. 

Though the embrace they engaged in upon emerging nearly an hour later spelled the matter quite clearly out to those few still straying about the Hall of Fire. Few, mind, could be considered sober enough to later do justice to the sight of Legolas flagrantly fondling Elrohir’s buttocks, as they licked and laved through a tawdry kiss. Indeed, were it not for Elladan’s timely interruption, Lathron himself might have missed his chance to solicit his brother’s attention, hazy as it was, for a warm chat over a glass of fine Dorwinion vintage, which conjured one of his few sweet memories of his time in Mirkwood. 

As Elrohir was dragged off by his twin to settle a wager, Legolas collapsed into the soft of a high-backed chair before him, downright tipsy with afterglow, yet thirsting for a tall drink. Before even a word was exchanged between them, his brother had polished off two brimming goblets, wiping the excess wine from his mouth even as he gestured for another dose of spirits. Lathron indulged him, as a loose tongue and a dulled temper would perhaps be best for their coming discussion, though he could not help but be heartened by Legolas’ stunning luminescence. His brother looked, strangely, of rare innocence, as if his time in the enclave had moved as much as sated. His proud eyes were constantly lured across the room, as if his lover’s own radiance were of ensorcelling magnetism. He struggled manfully to school himself, to mask his all-too-palpable adoration before so many interlopers, but he was not by far quenched by their intimacy and quite obviously longed for more. Indeed, Lathron began to doubt the timeliness of their conversation, as Legolas’ focus constantly swam away from his brother, into the more treacherous waters of outright flirtation with his lover aloft. 

“Are you done with wandering?” he mirthfully chided. “Or should I retire to my own lover’s bed?” 

“Hush, Lathron,” Legolas upbraided him, even as he crimsoned. “There are keen ears about.” 

“Yet somehow you believe their eyes shroud to your rather glaring advances,” he countered. “The pair of you put on quite a show, in the final movement. One to rival the minstrels, for certes.” 

He had not thought his brother could turn a darker shade, but there he was, purple with embarrassment. Not with shame, however. 

“Letch,” he taunted. “Did you get an eyeful, then, brother-dear?” 

“I took meticulous notes,” Lathron insinuated, with a wickedness all his own. “Erestor is somewhat demure about even the most chaste displays of affection in public. I have ambitions of curing him.” 

Legolas sprang up in his chair, eyes bright. 

“I heard some wondrous news, this very afternoon,” he simmered gleefully. “Has a binding indeed been proposed?” 

Lathron chuckled heartily, but could not stifle his own beaming smile. 

“Perhaps,” he himself demurred. “What do you counsel, toren?” 

“Immediate acceptance,” Legolas impressed upon him, no less than bouncing with approval. 

“As, indeed, I have,” Lathron informed him, rather sheepish at the thought. “The first day of spring, methinks, will suit us well. A new season for a new beginning.” 

“Excellent,” Legolas sighed, content. “Then I need not delay my departure.”

Lathron nodded sparely, hovering on the precipice of the very matter he wished to broach. To plunge, or not to plunge? He eyed Legolas warily, wondered at the moment’s readiness. His brother was not so cheered as to mistake his hesitation, and raised a shrewd eyebrow. 

“Then you’ve chosen to return,” Lathron murmured, though neither was fooled by the casualness of the remark. 

“I see no choice in the matter,” he ventured. “I am sworn to Mirkwood’s defense, and I swore to our brothers I would bring them word of your wellness. Indeed, the entire ruse of my leave-taking hinges on my return with… with news of your ‘death’. I am not supposed to… to arrive in time. We thought it would be less painful for Adar if…” He struggled to continue, vividly aware of his brother’s potential disapproval of this aspect of their compact. 

“Aye, twill be best this way,” Lathron acknowledged. “He will not come to Imladris, and I will be cautious of when I might visit the Golden Wood.” Legolas seemed relieved at his ready acceptance, enough to lower some of his defenses. “Yet I would caution you, my dear one, to muse awhile on the nature of vows, of which are the most vital: those made in haste, or made in a lover’s bed. Do not be such a fool as to forget, or worse be deluded into ignoring, that you have sworn yourself to both parties, Legolas. And our brothers may prove the more forgiving. A well-composed letter would easily suffice them.” 

Legolas took a moment to consider his words, then countermanded: “I am the captain of the southern patrol. I cannot abandon my guard.” 

“You can lead an Imladrian guard,” Lathron insisted. “You know well Glorfindel would immediately approve you.” 

“And what of my quest?” Legolas retorted. “Being in Mirkwood sharpens me, readies me for the road ahead. Without suffrage, without stricture, I will grow soft. Perilously soft.” 

“Trust in me when I say there will be peril enough here for you to suffer, nin bellas,” Lathron shot back. “No realm in Arda will be spared, once Sauron’s armies are assembled.” 

“The people of Mirkwood will loose hope without their champion,” Legolas angrily explained. “While humbled by the curse of my begetting, I am not blind to the effects of my presence, while at home. I cannot abandon them to despair.” 

“What of your own despair, Legolas?!” Lathron grew adamant. “Your own needs, your own desires. I commend you, you seem genuinely torn between Mirkwood and Imladris, but my question is this: in which realm abides the one who will help you survive this mad destiny of yours? And if survival is impossible, who will bring some ease, some happiness to your days, until the dark hour of destiny’s call? The Shadow is nowhere near readiness for attack, you will have hundreds of years to wait out this final battle. Why spend it away from the one you hold most dear?” 

At that, Legolas wrenched his eyes away, stuck them on the floor. Lathron thought he saw him choke back a sob. When his gaze rose anew, it brimmed with utter desolation, with a grief more acute than that he had suffered over their mother’s slaying. 

“I alone hold him so dearly,” Legolas barely whispered. “He does not… return my feeling.” 

“Excrement,” Lathron spat. “One only needs to look at him, Legolas, to know that a falsehood.” 

“You speak of promises unwritten, seared by sweat,” Legolas rasped on. “He will hear none. We play together, comfort each other, true. I have tried, toren, over and again, so desperately to lure some slip of heart’s confession from him, but he ever denies me. He is afraid. Of the very destiny you speak, of my potential demise. With all his heart does he fear, with such fervor that naught is left to love me. I cannot force him to believe in my survival, Lathron, when even I do not entirely. I certainly cannot convince him of our future, nor can I condemn him to the grief that so terrifies him he guards his heart like the very gates of Mordor itself.” With greater conviction, Legolas finished. “So I will return to Mirkwood, and see if that will shake him.” 

“He will only retreat further,” Lathron advised him. “He will not relent his fearfulness in your absence. Only by your continued presence can you hope to banish it completely. Only by the sheer force of your love.” 

“And what if I am the ruin of us?” Legolas mused, bereft. “Of my beloved, my brothers, and my father’s people?! Your choices have always been clear, Lathron, and even you rather treacherously erred! You never should have returned to Mirkwood after that honeyed summer, so long ago. How can you counsel me to throw caution to the wind, when so very much is at stake?”

“If the loving way is not the answer, my dearest brother,” Lathron concluded. “Then there truly is no hope, for any of us.” 

As Legolas withdrew back into himself to contemplate this further complication, Lathron cast his eyes across the room. By the gaming tables stood Elrohir, argent eyes thick with concern, locked on his fuming lover. Lathron took this unguarded, unobtrusive chance to examine their silvery depths; searching for what, he could not say. 

The answer to his brother’s silent prayers remained as elusive as those mysterious mithril eyes. 

 

End of Part 3


	4. Chapter 4

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Four

Imladris, Year 1137, Third Age

Two months later

The filmy light of ebbing afternoon tinged the treetops sterling, gilded the black, budding boughs with an angelic aura. The forest was swathed in cottony mist even so late in the day, as the stark rays of springtime sun met lingering winter chill. Twas a day of stunning majesty, of hues silver and gold, herald to the burgeoning season. Though the ground was still encased with icy sheets of preserved foliage, the merest crack of boot heel found one momentarily stuck in the squishy mulch beneath, if their worn leather was not already sodden from the disparate rivulets of melting snow, which cascaded in glistening streams down the gentle slope that lead up to the Last Homely House.

The fair weather had allowed the celebrations to be held on the terrace adjacent to the banquet hall, where a humble party of invited guests currently huddled under their woolliest cloaks and tippled goblets of hot mulled wine to stave off twilight’s advent awhile. The recently bound couple, in the seats of honor, were so ruddied by elation that they betrayed not a hint of frigidity. Their reverent gazes, relentless caresses, and mutual entrancement may have been incited by the melding of their soul flames, yet the very sight of their effulgent love warmed each of their familiars such that the atmosphere was nearly as lively as midsummer revels. When the jovial minstrels had bade the assembly dance, few had denied their sprightlier urgings; those few forgoing the pleasure buzzed about the hive of the dance-space in raucous conversation with their dearest friends. 

None were more alive than Erestor and Lathron themselves, who whirled about the terrace with such breakneck élan they could have been mistaken for a couple of overgrown elflings, save for the downright immolating kisses they occasionally paused to roguishly engage in. Lathron, being a wood-elf of mercurial repute, was the more shameless of the newlyweds, oft seizing Erestor so possessively and embracing him with such smoldering vigor that one might forgive the Lord and his Lady for fearing that they would throw down in the very spot they stood. Yet all understood, and readily accepted, this brazenness, for twas but weeks ago that the golden groom lay on Mandos’ doorstep and his prospective mate was seething with despair. In such tense, strife-drenched times, even unpretentious victories must be sung to the heavens like the most hallowed of glories; the inhabitants of Imladris were only too thrilled to lend their voices to the choir, on this immaculate day. 

Yet one among them found the buoyant cheer about him rather stifling, suffocating nearly beyond his endurance. The ceremony itself had moved Elrohir fiercely, their passion, their faith, such that he had been forced to shield his eyes from view, lest his family be overly distressed by the tears brimming there - such emotion so unbecoming a veteran warrior. The feast itself had had its distractions; Glorfindel had been rather keen to deliberate over which of their fledgling flock of soldiers should be promoted to the guard, much to his relief. He’d barely kept counsel during his Adar’s speech, his calves and flanks wrecked with muscle spasms, raring for retreat. Lorindol’s impromptu blessing of the adoring couple had speared deep as an orc’s scimitar. Glorfindel’s own solemn tribute to his great friend and trusted advisor further gutted him, such that he could barely lurch to his feet, once the dancing swept up the assembly. Muttering the most confounding of excuses, he’d escaped into the wilds, yet once off the still frosted path, a few paces into the forest proper, and after a long, cleansing draught of purest air, he loomed beneath a spindly willow awhile, observing the festivities from afar. 

On this first day of new spring, Elrohir had awoken at dawn to officious horns blaring in the distance. The riders’ gallops so pounded the hard dirt of the road that they resounded through the courtyard like a volley of catapulted boulders, even the shrill whinnies of their rearing horses permeating the sated somnolence of his bedchamber. Legolas, spooned to his backside like a second skin, hadn’t stirred except for his ever-present, dream-stoked arousal. Elrohir, however, had been instantly coiled with unbearable tension at this ominous waking. Who other but the tempestuous Princes of Mirkwood would brave the last gales of this fiendish winter to cross the Hithaeglir? What other charge could have spurned them to such risk but the collection of the remnants of their once-impenetrable ranks? 

Though their timely advent would be near miraculous to Lathron, to him the thundering hooves had portended abandonment, heartache, and further inveiglement of his most secret, shaming desires. He had hoped that, once drunk with elation on his brother’s binding day, he could somehow convince Legolas to remain awhile, until he found the words, the meticulous arguments and the most visceral points, that might convince him of the essentiality of a permanent stay. Yet even he could not vanquish the formidable Princes of Mirkwood, not on such an uneven battlefield, not at such an injurious social disadvantage. He could perhaps best them in swordplay, but he was a fumbling fool in affairs of the heart, especially since he had not yet entirely reconciled his own to a single, strident course of action regarding his affections for the woodland prince. He had begun, in their most private hours, to experience the first stirrings of devotion, but wanted to explore these further before he sacrificed the blithest friendship he had ever known for a fraught, blundering relationship. Yet time, more than that band of burnished brothers, was against him; *times* were such that every decision must be bold, sure, and true. 

Elrohir was none of these where his softest emotions were concerned. 

Time was a fleet, slippery ally, who had, in the end, escaped him. 

He’d broke from his knotty torments on Legolas’ throaty groan. In the haze of morning, his archer was ever servant to the mastery of his aching member, which even whilst wading in the torrid climes of a drowsy doze he kneaded between the pillowy buttocks before him. Covetous arms had snaked around him and a moist tongue had slithered up his neck, his stealthy wood-elf the very vessel of temptation itself. He had been suckled and stroked with expert care, until his every thought was scarlet, until he succumbed to the incensing consolation of the one he cherished so. He could not spare himself, on such a desolate morn, the consummate bliss of Legolas throbbing within him, the only lover to have ever delved so. He had commanded all other encounters, taking his fill of pleasure but barring access to his inner reaches; when he lay with his golden one he gave all. Yet still the whole of him was not enough to secure his unwavering trust, to banish all thoughts of duty and of destiny, to believe in their forever. 

Perhaps they both cared too much to lay down their arms before uncertainty and surrender to the precariousness of fate. 

Twas after spending that melancholy had first descended, when a sobering knock had shook the door, announcing the princes. Legolas had sprung from the bed as if lightening had struck; he’d not seen him again until just before the ceremony. He watched him now as he leaned against the rail, once more counted among that elemental circle of Mirkwood princes, that glorious, golden ring of proud gallants. As they jested and caroused, Elrohir longed, somewhat ridiculously, to snatch Legolas away, scurry him across the seas to the Blessed Realm, from where they could witness Arda’s cruel conflagration. His misery had made him craven, fanciful, but this, too, was a feint from one of his painfully honorable character. He was himself a Prince of Imladris. Though he had not known the strictures and deprivations of a royal Mirkwood existence, his breeding was such that he would give anything to the Shadow’s ultimate destruction, even such a potent price as love. 

Such a dark age demanded valor, devotion, and absolute sacrifice. In the end, he could do naught but relinquish his lover to the unwieldy pull of family, of followers, of fate. 

He took a last, embittered look at his Legolas, then lost himself in the gloam of twilight.

* * *

Southern Rhovanion, Year 2511, Third Age

An acrid smog rolled through the stark, seething woods, rife with the scent of recent death. Yet the flesh so rabidly consumed by the distant pyre flames was not of the rank stench of skewered orc - for what warrior band would pay tribute to the heathens – nor of the fatty venison smell of roasting men, but of the cindery, almost sweet smoke of the immolation of an elven vessel, the soul long fled to Mandos. Yet such sacrifice of fallen sword-brothers was hardly the custom among their kind, nor were most patrols so foolish as to light a veritable bonfire in the forest thick, so the prince himself had set out to investigate, along with a flurry of his finest sharpshooters. The remainder of the company loomed in imperceptible camouflage around the hotbed of questionable activity, the fire bright as a beacon against the Mirkwood gloom. 

As they crept through the rotting brush, stealthy as the spiders that oft stalked them, Legolas could sense how keenly curiosity bristled through his guard. Though this mission, as all, was fraught with unknown perils, they could not help but marvel at the brazenness of these blackguards, setting a pyre ablaze but leagues from Dol Guldur, in a forest teeming with every foul beast in the panoply of shadowspawn. Twas as if they dared them to ooze from every crack and crevice, to march forth in the most blatant attack or to sneak invisibly into striking range. They were so self-besotted as to believed themselves invincible. Though Legolas was himself rather intrigued by what hybrid race would be so arrogant, so witless as to spit in the face of death itself, as to summon their slayers for sport, he also was too shrewd a captain not to implicitly comprehend the grave dangers of trafficking, even for a moment, with such dubious company. 

As such, twas quite a shock that seized him when, poised in the boughs of a tree on the edge of the glade, so close as to be ruddied by the very heat of the pyre, he heard an unmistakable voice intone a somber eulogy over the fuming corpses of his slain comrades. His forehead adorned with a healer’s diadem but his face studiously drawn, only the reflection of the engulfing flames in his eyes gave the merest semblance of life to his blank features. He was dutiful, yet utterly devoid of passion for one who risked the lives of every elf that surrounded him, heads bent in prayer. Legolas would have been aghast at this unthinkable behavior from one of his dearest friends, were he not suddenly preoccupied by an even more dire trouble. 

Elrohir was nowhere present among them. 

After his whistling signal, his company dropped from the trees. He had barely managed to wait-out the funeral, the bile singeing up his throat nearly so corrosive as to suffocate him. Even as he strode forth, he fought not to waver in his steps, not to stagger nor to sway, for his soldiers would see his weakness and be as startled as he by the force of circumstance. The Imladrian elves formed ranks to protect their leader, but Elladan waved them off, the faintest flicker of a smile his only welcome to his friend. 

“I feared you might come find us,” Elladan snorted, offering his hand for the usual warrior’s clasp. The formality of his grasp unmoored Legolas, as did the stern, stiff bow that followed. Twas as if they’d never met before. “Save yourself the breath, meldir, I know well how you would reproach me. We gladly await them, do not fear. You’d best return to your camp.” 

Astounded, Legolas moved intimately in, as he would not have his answer overheard. He did not mistake how quickly Elladan began to tremble. 

“I will give no such order, *gwador*,” Legolas hissed, affronted by his cold reception. “Until you make sense of this madness.” With a hard swallow, he braced himself. “Where by the gods is Elrohir?” 

This incited a smirk from Elladan, who roughly retorted: “He is at the pond, bathing. He does not care for the tribute. Only for the kill.” 

Though his words were gruff, his silver eyes were fluid as puddles of rain, silently begging Legolas not to allow him to lose face before his guard. With a quiet nod, Legolas gestured towards the denser cover of woods, where they could share a private word. 

“Stand down,” he commanded his troops, who obeyed without a second thought. They had already begun fraternizing with the Imladrian warriors, when he added: “Take your ease awhile. The captain has vital insights as to the enemy’s plans.” 

He could not repress a heavy sigh of relief, as he followed Elladan into the murk. Though he was not entirely unaware of the grievous impetus for such roguish behavior, he would never have believed that the twin princes of Imladris, his childhood friends, would be so incensed by tragedy as to virtually lay themselves out for the skewering. Why did Lathron not write to him of their wildness? The difficulty of correspondence may have increased as the Shadow’s reach stretched out over the lands of Arda, but surely messengers traveled routinely enough between Mirkwood and Imladris for his brother to send him a summons of such urgency. Indeed, as soon as he’d heard of the Lady’s torture and her eventual passing, he’d rode off to succor his friends, but even such haste had been too late to meet them. Glorfindel had confided that they had not stayed a week in their healing beds, but flown the valley as soon as they could walk straight, bent on furious vengeance. Legolas had scoured the foothills of the mountains, as well as the fields beyond, but to no avail. Once back in the bosom of his border patrol, he’d been informed by a nomadic band that the brethren had retuned but for their naneth’s leave-taking, then aimed for the swamps beyond the Mines of Moria. In the months since, he’d always kept an eye out for his friends, but he’d have torched the very trees about to find them, if he’d thought they were so poorly. 

No sooner were they shroud by the forest dank, than Elladan crushed himself to him. With a timorous bleat, he enveloped his friend, pouring every possible drop of his warmth within him. As quickly as he’d come on, Elladan tore himself away, fighting for composure. He struggled so to hold back his tears that his mouth was bit bloody, his stormy eyes so overcast with desolation that Legolas nearly wept himself. 

“Tis well you have come,” Elladan admitted, coughing to expel some of his sorrow. “He will no longer heed even my softest objections. I, too, am bent on revenge, but there are warriors sworn to us and I would not further imperil them! If we are to cleanse Arda of this scourge, then we must be as clever as we are keen. No needless carnage, no bald assaults. He charges blindly into the fray, thriving on every chop and stab, thirsting for the gore-spray over his face, goading them to strike him. Tis witless, Legolas… tis insanity.” 

“Why did you not send for me?!” Legolas demanded, his throat constricted at the thought of Elrohir so murderously forlorn. “Why have you allowed this to go on, Elladan? Have you no love for your brother? Have you no sense?!” 

The elf-warrior’s eyes blackened with rage, his temper flinty as every, but he whispered: “At first, I feared that your presence would only cut his wound deeper. Your friendship, though constant, is not the grace it once was, Prince of Mirkwood.” 

Legolas exhaled slowly. His instinct was to defend himself – for if love was lost between he and Elrohir, twas his that had spilt, unrequited, from the very veins that encrusted his heart - but what brother would conscience any reproach of his grieving twin, in such a pregnant situation? 

Instead, he vowed: “I would have cleft myself in twain to see him heartened, Elladan. You forget the one so dear that I, too, have lost. And not to fading.” 

The darkling elf’s eyes brimmed anew, he looked away. 

“Yet it was quick,” he murmured, heaving with sadness. “Instant. You did not see her, Legolas, wriggling beneath their claws, bared to their rakish eyes, her milky skin curdled by their slime. Tormented for days before we found her! You did not hear her screams…” As if with his last breath, he told the worst. “She did not want our rescue. All the long journey home… she begged for death.” 

Speechless, Legolas could do naught but move slowly towards his friend, offering his arms. Yet Elladan would have none of his pity. He backed away, face as pallid, as haunted as before. 

“He is by the pond,” he repeated, the faintest simmer of ire in his tone. “Convince him to relent.” 

Resigned, Legolas bowed in deference, then set off about his task. If he had to snatch Elrohir by the very strands of his raven hair and drag him for miles behind, if he had to beat his last semblance of sense into his grief-befouled mind, if he had to slice their very palms open and bind them in the mire of this wretched swamp, then he would do so for the sake of his friend, for the sanctity of his beloved one. 

He would gouge out his very heart and plant it in Elrohir’s chest, if he were in need. 

* 

The wraith-like creature that emerged from the still, gray waters blended so wholly into the dismal palette of gloom that surrounded him that Legolas nearly mistook his friend for one of the wretched souls that floated, aimless and adrift, in the Dead Marshes. Elrohir wafted up the parched, bristly grass of the bank like a wandering shadow, his once starlit skin nearly translucent with pallor, his limbs spindly with emaciation, the long, sodden lengths of his inky hair bleeding over skeletal shoulders like cloying strands of black seaweed. The peach of his cheeks had been cored of pink, as hollowed by a journeying warrior’s rations as by the ravages of sorrow. His keen mithril eyes had lost their mesmeric spark. They were hard and crude as freshly mined ore, their scythe-stare raising, their filmy white vacuous. 

Yet one who fought so relentlessly, so adamantly was not entirely devoid of strength, his manly blessings were not completely absconded in misery’s wake. Instead, he was razor sharp, of sleekest sinew, of leanest meat, of hawkish mean. He had become a crueler version of the shrewd-eyed falcon he had so effectively embodied upon their first, bedazzling midsummer, a pure, voracious predator. Legolas felt his innards rumble in discord at the specter grief had so coarsely fashioned of his friend, his reeling mind unable to countenance what form of envenomed avenger tragedy may have spawned from the remnants of the doting lover he had so blithely known. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to sear into his sullen mouth every cinder of love he’d ever felt for him, to ignite his fell spirit into a razing conflagration of lust, hate, agony, ecstasy, any emotion that might fill him with light. 

Then, to his great shock, Elrohir smiled at him. 

“Legolas!” he called out, defiant of the seeping woods around them. The darkling elf clopped his way over the brittle grass, his soaked trousers streaming behind, squeezing the woodland prince into a hug of such astounding force that Legolas thought his ribs might crack like kindling. Elrohir was downright frigid from the glacial pond waters, shivering in his arms like a frightened child; yet his affections were effusive, vociferous in tenor, gripping to his friend as if to the final ledge of a treacherous cliffside, wallowing in the warmth of his lithe, limber body. “*Legolas*.” 

Legolas kept him enclosed in an iron, vital hold, refraining from the delicate strokes and pets that he instinctively knew might disturb his so trenchantly wounded friend. Having himself suffered through a similarly bleak period, he intuited how Elrohir would require his strength, his conviction, and his compassion, not some fumbling overture. If he wanted sex, then he would have it; though Legolas judged his desire, along with his sense, too long eroded to do other than crumble under the straits of such intense emotions as provoked by even the most amicably-intended coupling. 

Theirs could never be so distant, and so there would be none, for the present time. 

“I searched, gwador,” Legolas informed him. “Every glade, plain, and vale between our troubled lands, I searched for you and your brother.” 

“We could not stand to be near any thing we ever cared for,” Elrohir responded, in a voice wispy with ash. “Even now, tis… a gutting reminder.” 

With a pained grimace, he withdrew from his arms, stalking immediately over to his pack and avoiding the liquid eyes that followed him. 

“Why did you not come to me in Mirkwood?” Legolas inquired softly, striding over to him. “Or we might have met in Lorien, to ensure our privacy.” 

“To what end?” Elrohir asked, suddenly affronted. “A greater sorrow than the one I already suffered? Tis a bitter consolation, for one so grave as I have lately become.” 

“Then let my cosseting cure you of such gravity,” Legolas hushly suggested. “Surely you are owed as much.” He reached out to lay a gentle hand on his tense friend’s arm, but was rashly swiped away. 

“What I am owed by the fates, no simple archer could repay,” Elrohir retorted, his temper flaring. 

“Perhaps not,” Legolas allowed, swollen with sympathy. “But even this simple archer is lessoned enough to console you, if you would only relent some. Payment in kind, if you will, for his own skilled rejuvenation at your kindly hand.” 

“Then you have but come to refill my coffers,” Elrohir countered sharply. “With what I once gave freely, and without account.” 

“May *I* not be so giving, to one I cherish so?” Legolas whispered. He instantly saw how poorly he misjudged that last endearment, how falsely the sentiment struck his unwieldy friend. 

Elrohir reared on him, eyes brute as lead with anger, with resentment. 

“*Cherish*?” the darkling elf seethed, his breaths hissing like a Nazgul’s shrieking neigh. “A thousand years I have lived on the sustenance of a cold bed, and you dare speak to me of being cherished?” 

“To have continued our relations would have been folly, Elrohir,” Legolas challenged, but without ire. “Twas *you* who made to so convince me, two-thousand years ago. With a varied arsenal of excuses did you so bravely shield your princely pride from bruising: duty, severance, Shadow, fate.” 

“Yet twas I who relented,” Elrohir sneered back, though he retreated further towards the stark shelter of a sickly birch nearby. “To bequeath you the succor of which you now make such a pithy sacrifice.” 

“Do not abuse me so,” Legolas slowly intoned, his normally eloquent voice solemn and severe. He boldly invaded the protective perimeter Elrohir had established around himself, foist eyes of piercing, righteous blue so ardently into his sights that the elf-knight almost cowered against the abrasive bark of the trunk. “I have come to your aid, not for your salvation, for you have no need of saving. I would serve you in any way or form you judge sufficient. I seek not to impose myself, nor my favors, nor even my friendship, if you would have none.” He drew a deep, daunting breath, then continued. “Your present course will lead to ruin, Elrohir. Your actions are foolhardy, your decisions unconscionable towards soldiers that would give you their very lives, and you are deadly close to direly refuting any respect you may have once so gloriously earned from them. If I am to sit idly by while one whose stealth and skill I have so revered strikes blindly at the darkness, mired in grief’s suffocating shroud, then I will do so at his command, however preposterous and perilous such an order may be, for I am sworn to him in ways they cannot conceive of. But do not betray your guard in the name of vengeance. Do not tarnish their honor with the fumes of your fury. If you must rage… then rage alone.” 

The impact of his speech so shook his simpering friend, that Elrohir began to quake before him. His eyes so stung with unshed tears that he bowed his head, then sunk down to the base of the tree, seized over and again by epileptic spasms of sorrow. He snarled at himself, stabbed his fingers into the fell ground, done with debasement, with grief, with mourning. Legolas crouched before him, patiently hoping for some conciliatory sign from his tormented friend, barely able to hold himself from embracing him. Yet none could truly aid him in overcoming the fiery vengeance that consumed him. Legolas could warm him, console him, succor him with affection, but he could not act for him, could not force him into strategies and maneuvers that were more cathartic than self-immolating. Elrohir’s choices were the overwhelming trial of self-mastery or the perpetual throes of enslavement, and the choice was his alone. 

With an endless, cleansing exhalation, Elrohir relaxed against the frail tree. His argent eyes, so fluid, so forlorn, sought out the calming gaze of his lifelong friend, then beckoned him forth with a blink. Yet Legolas remained cautious, settling himself beside him but only weaving a tender arm around his waist, in quiet support. They sat in a heavy, penitent silence, complicit in their unmentioned forgiveness. 

When Elrohir finally spoke, his voice was roughed by strain. “A fortnight in Lorien would do us well.” 

“A visit to Rohan ever restored you, elf-rider,” Legolas remarked. “And the plains are nested with orcs, in the summer season. Easy pickings, for the road between.” 

“Might the King grant you leave to join us?” Elrohir ventured, his timidity returned. “Your companionship… your *friendship*, that is, would hearten me.” 

“I would be more than glad to accompany you,” Legolas answered. “But there is a matter which requires my immediate attention. Could you not come, at last, to my home?” 

“I fear a confrontation with your Adar-King would not do much for my remedying,” Elrohir simmered at the very thought of the vainglorious Thranduil. “I would slit his throat soon as bow to him, even in diplomatic deference.” 

“And you, so fond of governmental affairs,” Legolas gently teased, relieved by their banter resumed. “Perhaps tis wiser that you go south. Occupy yourself with begging Elladan’s forgiveness.” 

“Indeed,” Elrohir groaned, flopping his head onto Legolas’ ready shoulder. “What should I accomplish to earn yours again, gwador?” 

“Naught but your renewal, star-rider,” Legolas murmured into his damp hair. He cinched his arm around him, as the darkling elf cozied further into his embrace. 

“Then I am a fortunate fool,” Elrohir admonished himself with a dry laugh, yet still his words were tinged by despair. 

Rallying to the cause, Legolas assayed a pleasantry: “Shall I tell you of my plot?” 

“Plot?” Elrohir echoed, a brow raised in grateful intrigue. “Could the gallant Prince of Mirkwood be risking his hallowed renown with some devious cunning? How unlike one of his mischievous ways!”

Heartened by the mirth in his feeble friend’s voice, Legolas threw back: “Here I thought one of your precocious youthfulness would be proud that your longtime tutelage in the inveigling arts had finally come to some fruition.” 

“Indeed, I veritably shine with pride, gwador,” Elrohir chuckled. “Tis but the murk about that snuffs my sudden radiance.” 

“Then you will be positively luminous upon hearing of my designs,” Legolas shot back. 

“Then why do you so prolong the agony of my ignorance, Legolas?” Elrohir feigned aggravation. “Tell me presently.” 

“Very well,” Legolas agreed, eager to delight him. “The King, as you may have noted, is also cursed with a rather tempestuous nature. Indeed, he is so impatient, that he will not even wait out the long divined quest before saddling me with some maidenly frippery. As all my brothers have been dully bound - though one still quite unknown to his majesty - he has turned his unruly attentions to my noble self. He has found me a bride.” Elrohir was not so witless as to think Legolas would go obediently into such a union, so therefore was not a whit disturbed by such talk of wives. “The lady herself is sweet enough, dizzy as she is. Her family is certainly deserving of such an honor, as both her brothers and their fallen father have served the Mirkwood for centuries. My Adar-King knew well not to press some silly aristocrat’s daughter upon me, for that he is shrewd enough. Indeed, it pains me that he would be so vulgar as to condemn this poor girl to the grief she would undoubtedly suffer should I fail in my quest. That is the first, and most essential reason such a union must not be allowed, to say naught of my own desires in the matter…” 

“Aye, the Lady’s honor is an unimpeachable motive for the mischief that will soon follow,” Elrohir smirked ruefully. “You have done well, my charge.” 

“I say only that if my methods were somewhat crude, they were so with good reason,” Legolas insisted guiltily. “No matter what my predilections are, she should not be allowed to dim over... over one who would never in a milliard ages court her of his own will.” 

“Gallant, indeed,” Elrohir slyly commended. “I take it you have devised a resolution that somehow provides for her, as well?” Before the prince could answer, by his sheepish face he knew he’d guessed aright. “You are a marvel, mellonen. Tis a pity you do not more oft turn your mind to matchmaking.” 

“Verily, Elrohir,” he sighed bemusedly, then hastened to recount his tactics. “I discovered, through pretense of some great caring for her, that she once had a brief flirtation with a guard-captain from one of the far settlements. The warrior was said to have pined over her for nearly a decade, when she chose the dutiful path dictated by her family after her father’s demise. Colluding with my wily Lanthir, I had said captain reassigned to the palace guard. My, but he was chivalry personified! Not three days after his provenance, he accosted me in the barracks, demanding to know if he was brought hence to be dealt with, before I sought to woo and to win his lady fair. Naturally, once I evaded his blows, I brokered a deal with him.” Elrohir snickered hardily at this development, by now entirely embroiled in the tale. “That night, I sought a private audience with the maid. I told her, feigning princely imperiousness, that I was an elf of worldly pleasures, and as such that I would not lie with one untested in the bed-arts. I told her that I wished for her to take a lover, and would even allow my bedchamber to be used for their dalliances, so that, if word scurried into the rabid ears of the King, he would think I was asserting my claim upon her and be hotly pleased. As you can imagine, she grew somewhat pale, but duty fired so within her that she could not deny me. Then I announced that I had chosen someone to teach her, that he was presently on his way, and that I would broke no tarrying in their efforts. They must be bedded that very night!” Elrohir cackled at his proclamation, his slender frame shaking with mirth. “By her blanched countenance, I thought she might faint before her captain could steal into my rooms, but his timing was perfection itself, and at the sight of him she rosied quite prettily. By the time I left on patrol, weeks later, they were begging me to let them use my royal bedchamber for their trysting, whilst I was away. I have no fear that, upon my return, she will be so fatted with his babe that my father will have no choice but to deign him a peer of the realm!” 

Elrohir’s pearls of laughter were so profuse that he was nearly doubled over himself. Indeed, Legolas began to fear that, before long, he might be retching up his meager rations, such was the effect of the tale upon him. He indulged in a few chuckles himself, rather impressed by his own ruse. Yet, just to be sure, he offered Elrohir his water skin, which the darkling elf gulped down too greedily for his liking. 

“But will there not be another in her wake, gwador?” his friend inquired once composed, a quiver to his tone. 

“The King can press me all he likes,” Legolas scoffed. “The only result will be a bounty of babes such as the glowering Mirkwood has never known before.” 

He had thought this further jest would lighten his friend, but instead Elrohir grew decidedly maudlin. 

“I’ve missed our mischief,” Elrohir admitted, resting his head back in the crook of his neck. “The valley has become entirely too dour, though understandably so. The thought of returning, even for the snug winter… I almost...” 

“I cannot swear to this coming snow,” Legolas assured him. “But I will try to winter in Imladris as soon as seemly. But we will surely meet in the wilds.” 

“Aye, for certes, we will,” Elrohir agreed, but did not appear greatly consoled. To the archer’s surprised, his friend hugged to him, drawing both strength and warmth from the tangle of their bodies. “This episode has taught me well, gwador. Your friendship is elemental to the maintenance of my eternal soul. You cannot quit me long, Legolas. We must stay true to one another, else what value is there in fighting?” 

“Be well and eased, star-rider,” Legolas soothed him, his flame effulgent with vital heat for the heartening of his dearest friend. “I am ever here.” 

Even within the rank Mirkwood, his devotion kept the Shadow at bay.

* * * 

Imladris, Year 3018, Third Age

There was surety in the strike of a blade. Cruel, curt, and unrepentant, every swing of a broadsword, if skillfully aimed, no matter how artfully executed, was an emphatic statement of fact. I have challenged. I would best you. I wish for your death. The certitude that came shield and sheath with swordsmanship was what had initially lured him to excel with such a weapon, ever did this humble, yet visceral form of defense suit his forthright nature. There was little dissimulation in the hack and slash of armed combat; the enemy was within sight, every one of his strained emotions writ large across his grimaced face. The nuances of dueling also fiercely attracted: the elegant dance of whipping bodies, the lively clink and clank of intuitively paced strokes, the melodramatics of bald confrontation, and the feeling wrung out of even the steeliest warrior. 

With sword in hand he could growl, seethe, cry, maim the sniveling orcs, eviscerate a warg’s flank, disembowel any fell creature that dared attack one of his own. On the battlefield, his every slash was of righteous purpose, his lust for vengeance unsullied by shame or guilt, as if the blade itself compelled him on. In the mire of making bloody war, he needed not remember, as in his blackest dreams, the shriek of her voice as she begged him to finish her, the emaciated wraith that sobbed through the midnight halls of their home, the loneliness that encroached upon his every waking hour, even five hundred years on from that desperate day. The mask of stoicism, of rationality through which he dealt with the mundane was becoming increasingly transparent to his intimates, such that he had begun to crave a daily dose of brutality even when on leave at home. 

The training round was an outlet he both routinely fled to and relied upon to exorcise himself. In such times of strife, Imladris had no shortage of cock-headed youths so swelled with vigor as to brazenly engage its noblest prince in close combat. Though their conquest was no great feat for one of his innate talents, Elrohir found his satisfaction in restraining himself from truly injuring them. As their thrusts and parries grew more fleet, as they ducked and lunged about the ground, his parched tongue would begin to thirst for the taste of the acrid sweat of a survivalist’s exertions, his ears hummed angrily for the sound of cracking bones, his eyes rabid for the sight of spilling entrails and gored flesh. He wanted to punish these peacocks for their arrogance, to score into their rosy skin the lesson of true, gutting loss. 

Yet his fiercest berating was self-inflicted, if ever he should accidentally swipe them. After two such incidents had deprived Imladris, however temporarily, of a pair of its most accomplished guardsmen and had incurred Glorfindel’s unbridled wrath, the task became to rein in his ferocity, to muzzle his fury and to leash his ignoble impulses; in essence, to find fulfillment through the strictures of self-control. 

This method had proved most effective during his current stay in the valley. No sooner had he and his twin dismounted their steeds, than the horse steward had burst forth with the bleakest news of his long lifetime. The One Ring had been discovered in the Shireland of the halflings. As a result of a council of elders lead by their own Lord Adar, a Fellowship had formed to escort the ring back to the fiery crucible in which it was forged, the volcanic bile of Mount Doom. Among the hallowed nine were the most revered warriors of their respective peoples, the son of the Steward of Gondor, his own kingly foster brother, the dwarven son of the renown Gloin, the wily wizard Mithrandir, and, of elf-kind, one so dear to him as to evince his immediate devastation, though this he ill-concealed beneath his usual, implacable mask. Legolas had found his quest at last. 

In that moment, he’d known such insurmountable heartache, that he’d nearly tore out the last-resorts dagger he kept sheathed in the back of his boot and plunged its fang-blade into the plump of his chest. 

His golden friend had been his only consolation in the trying years since his naneth’s passing overseas. The blood-soaked swaths the brethren princes had cut through the teeming wilds had been interspersed with stays at home, in Lorien, and in the northern Dunedain townships, where Legolas oft met up with them. The mercurial comradeship of their youth had been thusly rekindled, the woodland prince ever receptive to the undertaking of a merry plot, a raucous eve of ablutions at the local ale hall, or even a shroud discussion whilst strolling through the gardens. Indeed, the archer came to insist upon attending them at least once every decade or so, raptly dedicated as he was to Elrohir’s comfort, heartening, and thorough mending. If the years that spanned between these necessary rests were the most ravaging he’d even known, then his easy time with Legolas was buoyancy itself; his spirit never soared so high as when conversing, gambling about, or secreting away with his dearest friend to sit, thoroughly relaxed, in complicit admiration of nature’s bounty. 

The quest had come too soon, yet had been so long in conception that Elrohir had been lulled into a dangerous complacence. While he was certainly not ignorant of the Shadow’s spreading reach, nor the spurious portends of encroaching doom, he had been too gladly immersed in deepening their friendship to truly be splashed into chill recognition of the tides of fate that whirled around them, that threatened to pull them under. He had believed – nay, relied upon the fact that there was time still, more time yet, time enough to convince him to… what? He was not yet resolved as to any path, nor notion, nor feeling towards his hale companion. He simply wanted him present, accounted for, or in the woods at large. 

Alive. He wanted him alive. 

Else…

Two months had passed since that tragic revelation, in which they’d resumed their ribald ways, lingering in the ale hall until late hours, spending long afternoons conversing in the library, and menacing every unsuspecting dignitary with their painfully acute witticisms. While their techniques had matured some, their penchant for dressing-down the haughty had not, nor were they less predatory in debate, reminding even those they respected of the vital difference between planned strategy and its outplaying on the battlefield. While he tried to relish every last instant in Legolas’ fine company, every nightly parting was so mournful to him that he inevitably slipped away, not without note but without later comment from the Mirkwood prince, before he was forced to embrace him, to bid him even an incidental farewell. Legolas nobly bore these seamless disappearances, though oft did his best to stealthily outwit him, which had become, in their own way, just another game of theirs, one too endearing for Elrohir to purposefully contemplate. 

Yet even the balm of Legolas’ constant presence could not keep him from the training ground. If ought, these strenuous times required duels of relentless length and of tireless charge, least his most scathing fears for the future catch hold of him. As the Fellowship’s lone elf had been required at daily councils with his elders, Elrohir had not wasted the chance of Legolas’ preoccupation to exercise himself. Indeed, he was presently engaged in the minute and insidious unraveling of one young soldier’s rather reckless stance, for which the novice swordsman was paying dearly in pride. He was, however, not yet so tempted by surrender as to cave outright; Elrohir thought he would attempt some pseudo-glorious, unadvisedly insulting end to his twitchy feints and powerless blows. 

If he were not so concentrated on the graceful execution of his own exquisite form, Elrohir would have cackled with glee. He would love nothing more than to scare some sense into this impudent youngling, who even the most blundering orc would decapitate without an ooze of its glutinous secretions. Leaping up a pile of sandbags and vaulting over him, the elf-knight swished his sword but inches from his opponent’s back, then grazed the hot ghost of blade-steel across the four joints of his exposed appendages, finishing with his neck, before his opponent even turned to meet him. A flurry of weak blows assaulted the youngling, who was instantly on the defensive, as Elrohir backed him towards the far wall. Only once rammed into that inescapable surface did a cold fear spark in his eyes, as he met cute with the tyrannical fire blazing in Elrohir’s own. With a final, ornamental slash down his middle, which sliced his tunic in twain but did not even flirt with scratching his skin, the elf-knight asserted his dominance by pinning the still defiant youth in, blade poised to entrench itself in his quivering belly. 

A shrill whistle twisted through the damp air of the training round, their unknown audience impressed by what was, to Elrohir, an empty triumph. When his attention wavered but a second, the youngling flew, most probably to complain to his captain of the peredhel prince’s fictitious manhandling. He imagined Glorfindel’s hardy scoffing, as he turned to address the interloper, who proved to be none other than his illustrious twin. 

With a rakish smile, Elladan gestured towards the outdoors, on the cusp of which he stood. Curious, Elrohir snatched a towel to wipe himself down and jogged off to join him. Elladan was already a few paces down the south wood path when he caught sprightly up, his body invigorated from his dueling and his mind aflutter with speculation as to the reason for this quietly beckoned word with his brother. He fell almost gingerly into step, to which Elladan could not help but chuckle, his cheeks ripe as apples in harvest season. Some mischief was most positively afoot; Elrohir would cheerily welcome the distraction. He had not but glimpsed his twin in passing for nearly a week’s time, which, frankly, had confounded him. Yet whenever Elladan had appeared, he had always been meshed in some convoluted task or perplexed by some domestic conundrum. 

With Erestor’s attentions directed towards stores and supplies for the departing Fellowship, the princes had been appointed to his regular duties; Elrohir tackled the effecting of various treaties, as well as his bookkeeping and his secretarial work, while Elladan was charged with overseeing the running of Imladris herself, no small challenge for one of his garrulous nature. Yet the Chief Advisor had none but the highest praise for his brother’s work, which could not have been so overwhelming as to demand every instant of his time. Yet he had not stepped into the Hall of Fire for nigh on a fortnight, nor had he spared a moment to the maintenance of his own fighting form. When inquiries were made, none of the servants nor any of the soldiers could rightly say where he could be found, which had begun to rile Elrohir such that just the night before he had complained to Legolas, who had, in his own caring manner, confessed his own concern. The answer continued to elude them, as even his all-knowing Adar had not a fathom of insight for them. 

Yet here was the very twin in question, so lightened by some secret pleasure that he verily seemed to float between the trees. 

At Elrohir’s equally stunned and exasperated look, Elladan could only snicker in response. 

“By Elbereth, I have never seen you so bewildered,” his brother laughed, only too readily at his expense. “Whatever is the trouble?” 

“I am merely astounded at your sudden apparition before me,” Elrohir snipped. “I had feared you kidnapped by some giddy band of nymphs, stolen beneath the river’s dulcet flow and ritually tormented by their favors.” 

“Verily, Elrohir, I am touched you so wanted for me,” Elladan teased, resplendent with an strange, inner glow. 

“Are you spelled?” Elrohir retorted, though not without some mirth of his own. “Bewitched, gwanur, by some supple-bosomed maid? Where in Arda have you been these last days?” 

“I was ensnared by longing, after a fashion,” Elladan chuckled. “You are right to charge me so.” He fell pensive awhile, a smile curling his lips. “Shall I regale you with the tale of my adventures? Come, let us sit.” 

He nodded towards a large, flat-topped stone on which they had lazed away so many summer afternoons in their elflinghood, spent of energies by the scorching heat. Elrohir could not help but think there was some purpose to their stroll, after all, his brother desiring to evoke childhood complicities in order to soften his confession. This, of course, only made his befuddled twin more invested in his tale; Elladan was ever the master storyteller, as so many of their guard would hardily vouch. 

Once they were comfortably settled, his brother grew skittish, his quicksilver eyes darting about, before pursuing a rapt examination of the scintillating surface of the rock beneath them. By now absolutely ravenous with curiosity over what could possibly so unnerve his steady, centered twin, Elrohir caught up his lax arm and folded it between his own. 

“Tell me,” he encouraged him, eyes bright with interest.

Elladan swallowed hard, then began: “Four nights past, I was on my way to speak with Ada in his study. As the night was absolutely sparkling, I went by the terrace. As I approached his balcony doors, I heard the first bellows of a raging quarrel, between he and Glorfindel. Naturally, I was astounded.” 

“I would be no less so,” Elrohir seconded, sobered by this revelation. “I have never before heard them raise their voices in the other’s presence. They are a unified force against delegates at large.” 

“Then you can imagine my surprise,” Elladan underlined, becoming involved in his own tale. “Being rather upset by such unexpected anger between them and wanting to know its impetus, I waited, unseen, by the door, but I could not entirely make out the essential matter of their disagreement. A few moments later, Glorfindel himself threw the balcony doors open and burst out into the night, the flames of his rage barely dimmed by the cool air. He snorted about the terrace for a few tense moments, before he perceived me. He was struck hard by my presence, stunned straight for a second, before he cursed, leap the rail in an expert bound, and strode off down the garden path.” 

“You must have followed,” Elrohir instantly guessed. 

“How could I not?” Elladan shrugged. “Even in that brief instant, I had some… some strange notion that I was the last elf in Arda he wanted to find hidden on the outskirts of the study, that *I* was somehow the cause of their quarrel. I raced after him, catching him up leagues aloft from the Homely House, in the dense woods near the western caves. For several more miles I begged him to stop, with every possible argument I could summon up, as he was rather determined to avoid a confrontation. Yet when he did turn about to face me, his fire was not nearly smote. He blasted me for not letting him be, condescending as if I was still a child in his charge and not a longtime friend. I bore this as long as I could – for truly he was brazing in his remarks – assuring him with every ounce of patience I had left that I wanted only to console him, that I had never seen him so incensed and this frightened me. For if brave Glorfindel was afraid, then…” 

“Aye,” Elrohir assented, nudging him onward. 

“I cannot recall what finally penetrated his fury,” Elladan continued. “But, once deflated of his bluster, he grew eerily quiet. I crept up to him, not wanting to enrage him further, hoping to eventually lure him into even the loosest of embraces. I asked him what was the trouble? Why had he fought with Ada? What matter could have divided them so? Glorfindel did not reply, seemingly at war within himself. When I finally managed to lay a gentle hand between his shoulders, in a flash, something broke within him, and then… then…” 

“What?!” Elrohir demanded, fascinated by the unwieldy twists of the tale. “What then?” 

Elladan exhaled longly, bore incandescent eyes directly into his field of vision. 

“He kissed me,” Elladan confessed in a feathery breath, as his brother gaped outright. “It was the most passionate, the most searing… we did not break until we were both so enflamed by need that I pushed him off, then dragged him into one of the caves, where…” The elf-warrior shut his eyes, blushed hotly at this scarlet memory. 

“*Elbereth*,” Elrohir swore, still gawking at his flush brother. 

“The fever of the ensuing revels unmoored us both,” Elladan hushly pursued. “So that we resolved, upon a sunrise waking, to never speak of it again, to keep our distance for the time being. That day was one of the most impossible I have ever known. The tasks before me were plentiful, but not for an instant could I give them my full attention. My every thought and question revolved around Glorfindel. What had been his intentions in embracing me? Did he regret our intimacy? Why did he not wish for our relations to continue? Was he ashamed of the vulnerability he had shown in bedding me? Why *had* he quarreled with Ada, and what had that to do with the events that came after? I found no answers, only further confusion, but I knew one vitally certain thing: I had to break my vow and speak with him that night. And that… that… that every speck of me screamed for his touch, his caresses… his care. I felt stirrings, which so frightened me…” His brother cringed in remembrance, the feeling vivid in his lush features. 

“You went to him that night,” Elrohir prodded. 

“Aye,” Elladan conceded. “I was in agony. I stole into his bedchamber, awaited him. In truth, he did not seem surprised by my presence, though I could plainly see he was yet torn, troubled. I was no less so. He said the day had been excruciating for him, and I agreed. He said that he had thought of me every waking instant and feared that he had gravely wronged me. He knew he owed me an explanation, at the very least, would be more than glad to elucidate his actions, but that he did not truly understand them himself. He came to me quietly, enveloped me in his arms and held me for a longly while. If I am honest, twas then that I first knew… felt… After a time, we could not help ourselves.” 

“You fell to loving anew,” Elrohir acknowledged, no less astounded by the telling. 

“Indeed,” Elladan answered, with a fortifying gulp of air. “Yet unlike the previous night, we did not immediately exhaust ourselves. We lazed about afterwards, whispering, confessing.” He paused for emphasis, took up his brother’s hands. “He has favored me since my coming of age, desired me… but ever did he feel himself unworthy. He is so dutiful, he did not dare even mention his regard, feeling that such an imposition would be blasphemy for one of his position as my tutor and guardian.” 

“But ever have you felt softly towards him!” Elrohir insisted. 

“I know it well, and told him so,” Elladan agreed. “We conversed, interspersed with loving, throughout the night, and every night after. He explained the cause of his quarrel with Ada, which I will allow Ada himself to further detail. Though by day we kept vigilant counsel over our emotions, by night they poured forth like a furious cascade. The result was a rush of feeling such as I have never known. I could never rightly quit him, never be without him if naught for a vital cause…” His twin, the proud, bold, and strident elf-warrior of wide renown, suddenly demurred, then reddened quite delightfully. “I love him, Elrohir. We are both quite hopelessly in love.” 

“Incredible,” Elrohir murmured, reeling from his announcement. The one that followed was no less sundering; indeed, for a moment he thought himself struck by an errant bolt of lightening, such was its impact upon him. 

“We…” Elladan faltered, then gathered up the remainder of his courage and further enlightened him. “We were so passionately embroiled, night last… and with red war on the horizon… we were aflame, and terrified, and desperate to have our togetherness, so…” He shot out a ragged breath, then swallowed dryly. “We have bound ourselves.” 

Elrohir swooned such he nearly fell off the stone. Confronted by both Elladan’s beaming eyes and the twinge of mirth to his lips, he could do naught but launch himself at him, crushing him into a fervent hug, crowing madly with surprise, with elation. 

“*Bound*,” he exclaimed, overcome by emotion. “Bound! You, my brother, my twin, and… Glorfindel! I cannot fathom such a thing, and yet… tis the most heartening news I have heard in ages.” Still frazzled, he could do naught but hug his brother again. Elladan laughed, luminous. Yet Elrohir blanched just as suddenly, a rather pressing thought assaulting him. “And when might you be informing our Adar of such a…?” 

“My bonded awaits me presently,” Elladan informed him, radiant with pride. “We have an audience with Ada as soon as his conference with Mithrandir has ended. I came to you as soon as I could pry myself away from my beloved, as I could not conscience telling even Ada without you knowing, gwanur. But we would keep the news quiet, Elrohir, not to spoil the Fellowship’s tenacious mood. I know not how Estel, nor Arwen herself, might take such an occasion but days before his leave-taking for perils unknown.” 

“Well reasoned,” Elrohir nodded sagely, yet still tickled by the news. Indeed, he had not felt so light since their naneth’s passing. “But I must be allowed to tell Legolas! I know not how I might contain myself, otherwise!” 

To his further surprise, his brother’s eyes took on a hawkish gleam, treacherously perceptive and fiendishly acute. Elladan carefully extricated himself from Elrohir’s hands, signaling his next statements may be of slight controversy. The elf-knight felt his stomach leaden, wondering and yet afraid of what might come next from his brash twin. 

“Indeed,” Elladan remarked enigmatically, but observed his every reaction with purposeful intent. “I would not ask you to hold your tongue to one so dear, so long as Legolas does not reveal the knowledge to any of his fellowship. I confess, I am rather stunned by disbelief that you have so managed to contain yourself in any way or fashion towards our golden friend. I surely thought that you would have resumed your relations, what with his departure so near and your admiration so glowing, since tragedy befell us.” 

His own mood quickly clouding, Elrohir glared at him. 

“Would you spare me no heartache, gwanur?” he asked sharply. “Tis enough of a trial to know that… that these coming days…” He found he could not go on. 

“Then why do you not crib from Glorfindel’s playbook?” Elladan softly urged him. “Go to him, Elrohir. Confess yourself, before the Shadow takes him. Be with him. Bind with him.” He had wrongly thought his brother could not stare more incredulously at him than before. “That he wants you is unquestioned. He but waits for your action, any sign of your willingness to join with him anew. Thranduil has already had his day of Silvan glory, Legolas has rode out of Mirkwood their champion. He has no further obligations to King, nor kin, nor people. What rightly keeps you from such an elemental union, one that might very well protect him from the Shadow’s claw? Ever have you both drawn such strength and solace from your coupling. You are the most doting of friends, the purest of spirits, the most immaculate lovers of our age… why not secure your own eternity through the binding rite?” 

“Verily, Elladan, has newfound bliss so besotted your mind that you’ve gone raving mad?” Elrohir barked, through he shrunk from the stone to his unsteady feet. 

“Is the thought of my brother’s joy so insensible to him?” Elladan gently repliqued. “Would you forgo togetherness, wholeness… rapture, for caution’s sake?” 

“I *must*,” Elrohir hotly countered him, finding the font of his ire anew. “Not for caution, but for Legolas’ sanctity. If he should fall…” 

“Has your mulish mind ever considered,” Elladan interjected. “That in the thrall of such a bond, he would expend such an effort to save you from widowhood that the Valar would spare him? That your very union might save him from certain death?” 

“A loving union might,” was Elrohir’s frigid retort. “One born of the best of false intentions would be no boon to him.” 

Twas Elladan’s turn to glare, quite balefully at his stupefying twin. 

“You may educe Legolas to consume such excrement,” Elladan spat. “Instead of the sweetness his devotion deserves, but I am not fooled by your belligerence. Indeed, I ever believed you an elf of valor! Yet you shrivel before my eyes at the first mention of the feeling that has sickened you for nearly three millennia!” 

“Which feeling is that you speak of?” Elrohir admonished, mendacity simmering beneath the smooth surface of his words. “The sense of kinship I feel towards the riders of Rohan? The fraternity I have felt among the ranks of men? The solitude that afflicts me whenever Legolas is away – the only pureblood elf I can truly count dear - the alienation I feel among those purported to be of my own kind?!” With halting breaths, he bit back his last words, so scandalous that he could not rightly allow them to escape. Once a tenuous restraint was in place, he warned his brother off. “*Saes*, Elladan, I would not further spoil your joy. Verily, I am so glad of your contentment, of the peace within you. If Glorfindel acts in love as he does on the battlefield, then he will cherish you forever. I could not be more heartened.” 

Elladan, however, was keen as a blade, leaping to his feet and charging over to his twin, who struggled not to cower before him. 

“What are you playing at?” he demanded, incensed by his black suspicions. “What are you keeping from me?!” 

Elrohir opened his mouth to reply, but his voice hid awhile longer. Finally, he managed to whisper: “I simply mean that… I cannot say… what my future will hold…” 

At once, Elladan went deathly pale, swayed slightly, then was forced to support himself on the rock. Elrohir reached for his brother, but could not wrap him in the consoling hug his twin so coveted. He could not make any true promise to him. 

“You have not yet chosen,” Elladan finished for him, with barely a wisp of breath. 

“Nay,” Elrohir admitted darkly, weary of wounding him further. 

“You would abandon *me*,” he admonished, his throat constricting. “Nana, Ada … *Legolas*…” 

“I am yet… uncertain,” Elrohir hesitantly excused himself. “I…” His brother was aghast with disbelief that he had never recognized such bleakness, such sorrow in his own twin, never truly absorbed how harrowingly their naneth’s torture had affected his soul flame. “Forgive me, Elladan.”

With a defiant rear of his head, Elladan dismissed his frustration, then foist sterling eyes on his mirror image. He charged over to his brother, seized him in an embrace of such iron strength that the elf-knight could do naught but wither into his arms. 

“There is naught to forgive,” he assured him. “But much to remedy, toren.” After a tender kiss to his brow, he pledged to him. “Yet your words will no go lightly by. I will rail against them with my last, Elrohir. I will not lose you to the fate of men, not if there is breath left within me.” 

Even ensconced in his twin’s sheltering arms, Elrohir felt naught but hopelessly forlorn. For all his razing fire within a throng of orcs, he could not presently give himself to his brother’s consoling warmth. His heart felt crude, hollow, malformed, unworthy of this shining one’s fraternal regard, but especially abused by the precariousness of fate. 

By a forever he could not rightfully surrender himself to, not without the surety of his golden one’s safekeeping. 

* * *

Legolas’ every sleek of muscle was clenched with fury, as he stalked through the swarthy halls of the Last Homely House upon a crystalline midnight. Beyond the vaulting arches of the ornate windows, a night of pearlescent shine beckoned the weary heart into its crisp, dusky climes, the still, frost-bitten forest a paltry shelter from the spectral winter moon. As he prowled between pools of filmy torchlight, the archer was embittered by the valley’s cool radiance, wishing for a fog in which to conceal his foul mood. 

Such were the trials of betrayal. 

The glowering halls had so suited his distemper that he’d continued on well past his bedchamber, roving aimlessly through the sallow dim of the Lord’s residence. Where in his youth the dungeon-like mahogany doors, the crimson tongue of a carpet, and the foreboding statues that guarded the dusty alcoves held a solemn grandeur, in such anxious times they became sinister, as if imposing upon even the most casual visitor the weight of the ages. There, affable Eregion smirked in silent challenge to the purported champion of the Sinda tribe, while a few paces down shrewd Finarfin glinted at the sterling toll of his legacy. Down the eastern wing, warriors that defied their mannish make loomed, proud and imperious towards their tribute in this elven sanctuary: starry-eyed Beren, ill-fated Tuor, and steel-willed Earendil. 

Each goaded him, from their eternal beyond, to best their singular accomplishments, to strike the Shadow with keener acuity than their fiendish broadswords. They mocked the woodland ingénue that simmered before them, wasting his vitality in restless wandering, in search of a dream that was an impossibility from its conception in a midsummer forest glade. Their sneering countenances gave rise to his litany of concerns over the coming quest; was he capable, solid, committed, of sufficient valor, of commendable skill, of truest heart? Could he bear through the most scabrous journey he’d ever undertaken without loosing sight of their libertine goal? Could he survive the misery, the dirge, the soul-sickness, still cling to the last, vaporous fumes of hope before Sauron’s smiting hordes? Was he an elf of legend, or a cipher in their midst? 

Such bleak musings had plagued him through the past months. Only the peerless presence of his elf-knight could banish his gloom, the constant flame of their effulgent friendship lighting him anew. Though, by Lord Elrond’s order, every elf took care to school themselves before those rambunctious innocents, his four halfling charges, lest they become perilously disheartened by more detailed knowledge of the tremendous task before them, in the company of kindred Legolas was oft beset by a maudlin mire of irreconcilable emotions, none of which he cared to share, even with his own brother. Yet in Elrohir’s pacifying presence, he could not long suffer his own selfish doubts, not when one so shroud by tragic memories made such efforts to ease *him* with merriment. Even with the despairing thought that these may be their final hours of togetherness hanging over their every ruse, game, or conversation, the heat of his regard for his lifelong friend broke through this haze of anguish to laurel this stolen time with the aura of the sacred. 

In unspoken compact, they had each vowed to treasure every last moment of these stagnant days before the tempest’s strike, which made Elrohir’s absence from the Hall of Fire that night all the more unconscionable. 

That the Princes of Imladris were both of suddenly irritable humor had been evident enough at the evening meal. Though they had been placed further apart than Legolas had ever known them to be seated, their mithril eyes flicked back and forth in silent communication, as if both had developed a long-concealed talent for mindspeak. Yet the woodland prince had befriended them long enough to decipher some of their more tumultuous emotions. While Elladan had appeared rather torn between a tickling ebullience and a sickening pain, Elrohir had simply been withdrawn, the shield around him so ironclad as to defy penetration by any seeking the cause of his distraction. Legolas had attempted some genial banter, pricking him just enough to draw a bead or two of blood, but Elrohir had remained immune, sanguine. To the archer’s regret, Aragorn had caught his ear once the meal had ended, so Legolas had not been able to snatch Elrohir by the arm and drag him along to their tempered revels. He had, however, expected him to follow! 

Few but the sprightly hobbits had not found his stoic face any less than utterly transparent, a mixture of ashen desolation and of cindery frustration fuming beneath. Two days and three nights were left them! No matter how barbaric, nor injurious was his argument with his brother, Elrohir should have sought his consolation, not abandoned him outright. He would travel with his fellows for months on end, but there was precious little time to bunker down with his elf-knight, trading barbs and snickering witticisms. Twas as if Legolas had never been for a moment endeared to him, well-regarded, valued, cherished! He’d forced himself to accept, even to understand, Elrohir’s impetus for slipping away in the glowing embers of each chummy evening, when the heartening flames of friendship could so easily conflagrate into unadvisable desire. He had himself warred within over the reawakening of his more covetous feelings towards his darkling friend, but had quite reasonably resolved to leave such stirrings in their golden past. 

Yet he would not stand for cowardice! After quitting his fellows with as much grace as he could muster in such dire straights, he had stormed over to Elrohir’s bedchamber and nearly battered down the door, his impudence fuelled by two furiously downed carafes of the most potent spirits available. Only once the door caved to his pummeling did he barge in to discover the empty quarters, Elrohir fled to Valar-knew which of his numerous secret caches, his occasional need for solitude as renown as his diplomatic sense. Sizzling with hurt, Legolas had had no choice but to tread out his anger through the ominous halls, condemned to haunt them till the rise of the benevolent dawn, his only companions the disdainful elders forever captured in stone. 

Breaking from his black preoccupation, he found himself ambling through the hall of distinction, where advisors and favored guests were given rooms. The sonic landscape of this lofty corridor was richer than the stagnant others, in tribute, no doubt, to the longtime couples housed here. Indeed, muffled cooing could be heard through the walls to Lathron and Erestor’s bedchamber, afterglow endearments having probably engendered a thoughtful discussion between the loving pair. The raucous moans sounding from Glorfindel’s bedchamber gave further credence to the rumors he was enjoying the charms of a most pliant lover, purportedly his first after centuries of self-imposed chastity. Yet both sets of lovers, one comfortably sated, one still maddeningly embroiled, only served to prickle the scales of his spine, so much did his nonetheless infuriated body want to grind some willing partner into the floor. 

Twas the only time in three endless millennia of exclusivity that he was ever tempted to forsake his private vow of faithfulness to the rapacious falcon that had been his bed-teacher, even if said elusive bird of prey had not the slightest notion of his ongoing loyalty. If he had, he certainly would not currently be nested in some sparsely cushioned nook, ruffling his feathers to shake off the frigid rain of sorrow and pecking away at the flayed remains of his self-worth for his pride’s meager nourishment. Even as his ire painted this dismal vision in hues of gray, Legolas cursed himself for his lack of vigilance, in his own wanting time, over one he knew was still wrecked with grief over his naneth’s passing. While this did not excuse Elrohir’s desertion, it put his unthinking actions in necessary relief against the archer’s overabundant, adoration-tinged ideals. 

With only two days and three nights distance from an eternal farewell, Legolas could not avoid longing for some sign that his millennia-spanning devotion was returned, that his unspoken love was not in vain. 

He most certainly wanted more than this ignorant mistreatment, than a night of feigned posturing and the crushing isolation of an empty bed. 

As the cacophony of braising cries echoed through the cavernous hallway, Erestor and Lathron having scandalously rejoined the fray, Legolas lurched towards his own bedchamber, his skin itching to be fervently stroked even as his chest sunk in surrender to his loneliness. He would have to pound out his frustrations in the clamp of his moist fist, a prospect only too reminiscent of so many solitary nights in the barracks of the Mirkwood guard, the memory of Elrohir’s satiny skin his only consolation. He longed to spread himself over that porcelain pelt with an ardor that would no doubt prove useful in the expulsion of his scalding seed, which currently broiled his loins into a sagging swell. His fury momentarily replaced by immolating need, he staggered into his chambers with eyes only for the waiting bed. 

No warning could have prepared him for the stunning sight of his elf-knight perched on its unmade edge, his waist swathed in a diaphanous sarong but otherwise without a stitch on him. 

“By Elbereth,” Elrohir exclaimed, immediately charging at him. “I feared you’d never retire!” 

Legolas had but a blink to prepare for the craven arms that twisted around him, the hungry press of sinuous bodies, the teeth that nibbled discreetly at his ear before a hot tongue laved up its length. His tense muscles went instantly fluid as he poured against his elf-knight, into the sultry vapors wafting off his glorious bareness. Needful hands broached no opposition in the unfastening of his tunic, as a rabid mouth bit and bruised his neck; indeed, he was suddenly so incensed by desire that he could only cling to his darkling friend’s shoulders as his breeches were torn open and his overripe engorgement was summarily palmed. 

Even as he indulged in a rasping moan, he was slammed back against the door, his legs kicked apart and his breeches hastily shoved down, so that the impossibly commanding creature that was his great friend could kneel in worship before him. There was, however, little reverence in the feverish laps those manic lips culled from his purple erection, before all pretence of foreplay was abandoned in favor of a voracious suck. Entrenching his fingers in the lengths of velvety hair that streamed over his lap, Legolas bucked as fiercely as his liquefying legs could manage, a reckless speed Elrohir not only matched, but soon bested, mauling him with ferocious lips, teeth, and tongue until he spent violently. 

Yet this completion hardly ended their torrid tumble. As the last quakes of his rather volcanic eruption bolted through him, Elrohir licked a dizzying trail up from navel to much-abused neck, then strut over to the bed. Eyes locked in lecherous appreciation of his feral form, from muscular back to taut buttocks, he grew even more ravenous when the darkling elf spread himself decadently across the coverlet, sarong lost to the luxurious carpet, shaft speared up like the meatiest broadsword imaginable. Legolas stalked towards him, shedding the last of his raiment from spend-flush skin, as eyes of keenest quicksilver raked the sculpted, ivory length of him. He did not need to stand long above the smoldering peredhel to stiffen, as the fleetest glance of those flinty argent eyes would have strung him anew. Yet he savored the moment, the serpentine lust that snaked round his thighs, that slithered up his spine, that envenomed his ire-tainted blood until it coursed scarlet red. 

“Do not spare me,” Elrohir commanded, leaving no doubt as to who truly owned him, who so effortlessly wielded both his fever and his fire. “Be brute, maltaren. Be bold.” 

In a flash, he was upon him, groping curves of sweaty skin, fondling his most tender slopes, worrying clefts, sweeps, and hollows to molten distraction. He ground their lengths together until neither had a whit of sense, each surge of pleasure more excruciating than the last. Once both were glutinously slick from their spurtings, Elrohir strung listless legs around his hips, begging to be had. Legolas stabbed into him with one cleaving thrust, crowed in ecstatic triumph, then set a punishing pace. Wildly impassioned by this most primal act of loving, he pinned Elrohir’s arms above his flailing head and pistoned his hips in visceral abandon, relishing the exultant eroticism of their sex as well as his dominance over the elf-knight he had so long pined for. Elrohir’s oozing member ripped across his abdomen like a phosphor stick over a flint; in an instant his stomach was sodden with seed. The flare of ignition sparked behind his eyes, whips of flame singed up the back of his thighs, and, with a roar, he spent. 

Still pulsing with the last throbs of ecstasy, Legolas collapsed beside his fugue-mired friend, whose spirit yet soared along the balmy breeze of rapture. Elrohir’s lush face looked positively beatific in satiation, such that the golden elf grappled over him and made to kiss his plump mouth. 

With a flinch, he was denied. 

“Tis too intimate,” Elrohir rasped by way of explanation, though he gnawed on his collar in a gesture of rough affection. “We best take care.”

Legolas rolled back, his mind too muddled by mounting desire to truly take offence. As if in salacious synch with his baser instincts, Elrohir crawled to his feet, swaggered over to the night table, then swiped a phial of amber oil. Famished anew for his elf-knight’s too generous ministrations, he found himself captivated by the near imperceptible undulations of the darkling elf’s navel, his puckering nipples that desperately needed pinching, the tusk-like adamancy of his quick-swelling shaft. With a wolfish smirk, Elrohir popped the cork with a flick of his thumb, then poured an unctuous steam of oil over his own shivering thighs, primed abdomen, and re-emergent erection. 

As he gazed up into the kind, knowing eyes of his luminous elf-knight, Legolas thanked the gods for his incredible fortune, then braced himself for a hard ride. 

 

End of Part 4


	5. Chapter 5

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Five

Edoras, Year 3019, Third Age

A bitter, northerly wind swept down from the iceberg caps of the mountains, its glacial gusts wicked with the smite of cinder and ash. The fuming wreckage of the Hornburg still soot the Westfold air with the acrid scent of carnage, only the pure rush of the Snowbourn cleansed the southern plains of its foul smoke. Yet for the haggard people of Rohan, the fierce brimstone wind that battered their rickety shudders back, scraped their sallow cheeks a braising red, and blew their threadbare cloaks off their very shoulders on such a merciless winter night reeked of nothing less than victory. 

Before the roaring hearth of Meduseld, at the King’s behest, they presently stomped heels, clunked frothy pints, and let their sozzled voices ring the rafters, for though they had lost many valiant men, their tribute would be the customary raucous reveling. While his fellows took their ease among this hardy folk - the hobbits twirling, the dwarf snorting, the wizard sagely observing the vivacious proceedings and the heir brooding amongst his newly-come rangers, Legolas had early retreated from the riotous celebration, eager for some private introspection atop the unmanned scouting post. The days past had been ravaging to one of his wood-elven impishness, the days ahead would see him tested to the furthest limits of his mettle. No warrior of proper salt would forgo the opportunity for some reflection, some remembrance of those dear, for whom he had fought so savagely, for whom he traveled so far, to whom he dedicated every slice of his slit-knives. 

Though he had only weeks ago galloped over the pebbled path that meandered up the steep slopes of the Riddermark for the first time in his three millennia, the company’s return that blustery afternoon, under the white horse banner of King Theoden, had strangely felt like a homecoming. The eleanor patches had tippled and tittered as such an elemental creature as he trot past, beckoning him to graze among them, to flatter them with his Silvan radiance, to fall in tipsy harmony with their dippy trills. As their steeds bounded up the craggy streets to the coarse majesty of the rough-hewn hall that crowned this ramshackle kingdom, Legolas was overcome by a surge of gratitude for this crude, hardy place, for its long-abused people. Such was the impact of the epic Battle of the Hornburg upon his blithe elven soul. Every skill in his arsenal had been required – nay, essential – to their humbling triumph and his otherworldly efforts had been rewarded with survival. As his spirit grappled, tremulously, conservatively, with each tiny trial that had turned in their favor – Gandalf’s startling resurrection, Merry and Pippin’s recovery, Saruman’s defeat, his flame was resurgent, finally rekindling a faint flicker of hope within him. 

This quiet rejuvenation was due to the precipitous advent of one he had not dared to think he might see again. Upon overtaking the band of rangers as they descended the Gap of Rohan, Legolas had been quite thoroughly shocked to perceive two elven riders among them, their feral forms swathed in the star-lined indigoes of an Imladrian mantle. Elrohir could not spare him more than a wink of recognition, though the relief that flooded his stern features had been palpably emphatic. He’d ridden the rest of the road in a daze, his arms aching for that first, fervent grasp around his friend, his skin screaming for the balm of his warmth, his doting tenderness and his peerless understanding. His tongue had seared as if he’d swallowed a fire-sword, a talent that was rumored of the court jesters of Harad, he had been so desperate to recount to his star-rider every fraught minute of his quest thus far. Only a few, gingerly kicks from Gimli to his flank had saved him from lagging behind, which would have resulted in a wasteful visit to the healers and an unconscionable delay in his reunion with his dearly friend. 

His elf-knight had not disappointed. No sooner had the brethren settled their steeds in the stables, than Elrohir had sought him out. Legolas had stolen into Aragorn’s rooms, knowing his taciturn leader and their foster brother would be so kind as to direct Elrohir there. Fortunately, Theoden had been in need of some rest, so their audience with him had been postponed a short while, a brief but too necessary respite. Legolas had been surprised by the nervous tremors that shook through him; he had shivered through his hasty wash and had fretted over his grooming to a ridiculous degree. Indeed, he had finally been forced to tousle his re-braided mane some, as his efforts would have been far too obvious, so proper as to nearly covet teasing. Growing downright panicky as the minutes had drudged on, he had preoccupied himself with brewing a rusty pot of tea, which the King’s own guardsman had quite thoughtfully left with him. Unused to such confounding domesticities, he had managed to singe the edge of his sleeve, scald his wrist, and burn the tips of three fingers, upon which he had been sucking when Elrohir finally slipped through the door. 

A soft laugh had announced him, though Legolas had spun around to meet silver eyes glistening with unbound affection, a throat constricted by near-suffocating relief at the burnished sight before him. Any lingering pain had been immediately dulled, as he was summoned by gracious, outstretched arms, as he sunk into their downy folds. Elrohir had held him thus, firmly, relentlessly, for endless moments, until their very hearts had pulsed into a constant, concomitant rhythm. The wind had brittled about the thatched eaves, the hearth crackled with distemper behind him, the faint clatter of loose armor could be heard rattling in the corridor beyond, but still they had held strong, shifting only slightly to cinch their entwinement tighter. Neither had spoken, neither had simpered, whined, or wept, naught but a quiet reverence befit the moment. In what may have been seconds or hours later, a familiar tattoo had shook the door; Elladan signaling the King’s readiness. 

With a grunt of dissatisfaction, Elrohir had given him a heartful squeeze, then reluctantly slipped out of their embrace; another wink assuring that the veil of night would secure a more elaborate reunion. Even once parted, he had felt as if he was permanently wrapped in an invisible blanket of the elf-knight’s opulent heat, as if this unctuous shield secretly protected him from all the illness about. Legolas had impulsively snatched up his hand in a zealous clasp, which he had not released until the door had been entirely swung open, until Elladan’s snickering glint had fully remarked them. Though Elrohir’s face had remained studiously impassive, Legolas could immediately sense his disapproval, his innate diplomacy on high alert. Yet the touch that had pressed to the small of his back to guide him forth, while fleet as the bat of a hummingbird’s wing, had been an incredible consolation from one so cautious as the renowned Prince of Imladris, one that bespoke of his tremendous grief at their parting. 

While their future was yet uncertain, their present togetherness was most assured, which made Legolas all the more anxious for Elrohir to extricate himself soonest from the roughshod party of horsemen he had been drinking with. The lateness of the hour was no boon to them, as the revelers would soon stagger back to their huts, the night guard would take up their vigilant posts, and any untoward cry would be discerned with too easy facility in the snoring silence about. Not that he earnestly considered coupling with his friend when there were so many more urgent tales to vent upon him, but, to be truthful, the sight of those covetous riders leaning ever closer to his darkling elf, not even aware of how his elven charms stealthily besot them, had riled him something ferocious. This, after Rumil’s vulgar, brash, and downright insulting overture whilst the fellowship camped in Lorien, had brought him to a rather explicit, though virulently unwanted, understanding of Elrohir’s extracurricular activities while visiting the southern realms. 

If he was honest, as he currently struggled to be, twas jealousy of the vilest, orcish green that had spurned his hasty retreat from the common hall, into the frigid, but clean, night air. Even as he reminded himself that those rubes had not the faintest notion of the ‘unnatural’ desire their craven bodies roused in them, that Elrohir certainly did not intend to seduce them, that his preternatural grace affected them on a level so deeply trenched in their subconscious that they were more likely to force themselves on a serving wench than to topple the esteemed elf-knight of Imladris, he was thoroughly sickened with envy, frazzled by a possessiveness utterly unlike one of his mercurial character. The fact remained that Elrohir had dallied with horsemen in the past, that his sheer peredhel magnetism had oft convinced some youthful Rohirrim to dabble in the ancient arts of male love, that the comely descendant of the very line he preferred sat within surreptitious groping distance. 

That even if he would never instigate such a liaison in wartime, in Legolas’ presence, Elrohir would be tempted to do so; was attracted to these rugged, bulky men, so unlike one of his delicate Silvan hue and of his gallant temperament, who would use him with unthinkable perversion. That he found a unique form of solace, of camaraderie among their rakish ranks and of completion in their bristly beds was unfathomable to him, though the impossible truth remained that Elrohir might, should Legolas fall, should he chose his uncle’s path, find his completion therein. That Legolas alone, even should he survive the war, would never be brute enough to tame the brawny Elf-Knight of Imladris for an eternity. 

That he would loose his forever love to one of these brave souls he had so recently defended, that in doing so he had writ his own epitaph. 

Legolas agonized over these bleak thoughts, even as he raged with resentment, the gauzy, moonlit view like a ghost looming, unseen, before him. Yet the footsteps that approached did not startle him from his gloom, nor did the advent of his treasured one offer the sparest comfort to him. Indeed, he looked as if he might throw himself from the far ledge at the barest hint of conflict, a state which forewarned Elrohir to go very gently with him. 

“Verily, gwador, you are an elf of purest font,” the elf-knight remarked, as he came to stand beside him. “Even my peredhel bones creak at such cold.” He was unmoored when the archer made no move to warm him, so veered his conversation elsewhere. “You were lately missed by Aragorn. He wanted a second in the Battle Game, challenged as he was by Eomer and Elladan. I offered my service, but he said he would have none but the one who had stood so courageously by him on your endless quest. As I imagine is usual among your fellowship, the dwarf Gimli took affront, and so they are partnered. I fear they stand little chance again two so voracious as my twin and the Rohirric captain. Twas a shame we could not form a third…” 

“If they are not too far into their gaming,” Legolas icily returned, despite his own, inner admonitions. “Perhaps one of the fair horsemen you conversed with so spiritedly might prove a worthy partner. By my eyes, all seemed rather keen to couple with you.” 

Elrohir gaped, he was so astounded by this blatant provocation, and from one so generously cultured as Legolas! For one who so prided himself on emotional acuity, the archer had mercilessly blindsided him, though once sufficiently composed he took the stab for what it was: a silent plea for recognition, for reassurance that he was the only one in his sights. He would provide one readily. He required a moment to arrange his wits, though, once prepared for worse, he was sure enough of his words. 

“They are indeed a lusty rabble of youths,” Elrohir acknowledged. “Swollen with triumph and famished for a raucous tumble. I wish them well in their womanly pursuits, as the maids are already weary of them. I certainly would not care to be rutted by some slobbering wolfhound of a knight, no matter how keen he may be with his broadsword.” Pondering his next statements with care, he chose to confront his friend’s unspoken objections with forthright admittance. “I have tasted such tumblings in the past and found they do not suit my palate. I prefer more refined, artful lovers, such as those of your golden graces.” 

“Perhaps there’s time for a brief trip to Lorien, whilst we wait for Gondor’s call,” Legolas shot back, his hurt vivid, incisive. “The laurelled warrior Rumil is one of flaxen glory. Indeed, he bade me give you his regards, whilst my fellowship stopped there for some reprieve from our quest. He was also kind enough to insist upon my own indulgence with him, so that your two goldenrod pupils in the loving arts you so excel in might compare notes, to turn a familiar phrase.” Elrohir was as aghast at Rumil’s rudeness as he was revolted by the very thought of his sweet Legolas being so guilelessly preyed upon. This insult would be revenged, if not in Arda then in Mandos itself. “I refused, as you might guess. Even one so foolish as I would not debase myself by lying with such a wretched creature.” 

Unable to stand this skipping about, Elrohir seized him by the shoulders and confronted him directly. The wood-elf flinched, but was too proud to dare evince his gutting sadness. 

“*Legolas*,” he emphatically responded. “What has brought about these black charges? Am I not an elf of honor? Do you think me so depraved as to flatter another when one so dear to me waits to share my bed? What have I done to so wither in your esteem? I swear on my Naneth’s grace, I have not lain with another since her passing, nor have I wished to. I have wanted only your succor, you softness. And then… when you were charged with the long-foreseen quest…” He sighed, unable to even attempt to explicate the complexity of emotion that had lured them back into the other’s bed, their coupling raw, ravenous. Indeed, even the very thought of their brutal passion was enough to fan the fires within him, his conflagrant body pressing him to mend this break so that they might blaze anew. 

Yet the archer would not quit his misery, all too apparent in his brimming blue eyes. 

“That may be so,” he mused, still tormented by thought of those lecherous riders. “But you cannot deny that you *have* lain with several generations of the *same line* of horsemen in the past, that Rumil learnt to suck whilst knelt before you and that those riders came of age upon your shaft. What assurance do I have that you will not seek out such indulgence in the future? That, if I should fall, you would not-“ 

“*You will not fall*,” Elrohir growled, the archer’s impudence slowly corroding his composure even as he understood the cause of his madness only too well. The pangs of grief were explicitly known to him. “But if you should… I would not take another.” After a long breath, he confided: “You have spoilt me, Prince of Mirkwood, with your smoldering bed-play. I have been the unwitting designer of my own enslavement.”

“Yet in the past-“ Legolas scowled, irate at his avoidance of the subject at hand.

“The past is done,” Elrohir countered hotly. “Our final hour is at hand. The great battle of our time will soon consume us both, gwador, this is not the moment for petty quarrelling! If you would have me, I would be one with you…” A shudder snaked up his spine at the thought of being denied; he clawed into Legolas’ arms sharp enough to draw blood. “…*need* to be one with you, before I recall the despair I felt at your leave-taking, through all those lonely nights of wondering if you lived, if you were slumbering safely… if you thought of our closeness, as I do, in trying times… if I would ever know you again…” 

Once he perceived the softness in his eyes, Legolas could not help but curse himself for inflicting his friend with such an unnecessary assault on his character. He should never have doubted his elf-knight, never have allowed his emotions to so entirely overcome his reason. Yet even as he berated himself, a small, restricted part of him knew that he had needed the assurance of his devotion as much as the indulgence of their coupling. That he had never truly understood Elrohir’s early-years desire to seek out other lovers, while he had found every bliss in their bed alone. 

One day, he promised himself, he would divulge his faithfulness to his darkling one, one peaceful day he would confess to his astonished friend how vigilantly, powerfully, and relentlessly he had been loved all these long years. 

This day, however, was not for confessions, but for contrition. 

“Forgive me, Elrohir,” Legolas bleat, flush with shame. “I know not what moved me to be so… territorial. I saw the lust in their eyes and… I became incensed!” 

“Fortunately, I know the feeling too well to fault you,” the elf-knight assured him, with an affectionate squeeze to his bruised arms. Relief washed over him, along with the desire that ever simmered within. “The men of Rohan might not properly appreciate your gilded beauty, gwador, but the women like it well enough! To say naught of the Imladrian guard, who regularly prod me, in their ignorance, for information as to your availability. Verily, I know not how none managed to bed you in all the years we were but chastely befriended.” 

Blushing a deep crimson, Legolas demurred: “I may blunder with my false accusations, but I am not so crude as to covet the guard of my former lover beneath his very nose.” By now rather charmingly sheepish, he added: “Not when the lover himself still proved such an alluring distraction. If my feelings in the matter of our continued relations have grown unwieldy, Elrohir, tis only because you have ever been the most beauteous, endearing, and utterly enrapturing lover I have ever known.” 

The darkling elf accepted the compliment with a wolfish smirk, took up the archer’s hands. 

“Such flowery sentiments flatter well, maltaren,” he purred, then with a gentle tug drew him back towards the wall. “Though your eloquence touches me, I am still of mind to ride you some. One of my insatiable tendencies cannot, after all, forgo this chance to extract some sensual punishment, for your love crimes.” 

“Indeed,” Legolas swallowed hard. Before he could further reply, he was unceremoniously slammed against the unforgiving stone wall, his arms pinned above his head by a feral-eyed peredhel. His engorgement answered this affront with a dizzying throb, with instantaneous, aching deployment. “Any service I might render to recompense the injury I have so callously inflicted would be undertaken, I swear, with diligence and… utmost devotion to its incendiary accomplishment.” 

“I expect nothing less from one so tireless as you, Prince of Mirkwood,” Elrohir rasped, nursing his own adamant erection. To Legolas’ surprise, he released his hands, then teasingly unlaced his own breech laces, before extricating a member of such breadth, length, and girth, the archer could not fathom how he found the riders so distasteful, when the mix of manliness in his beloved broiled the very blood in his veins. “For your first chore, I would indeed be lavishly serviced by that plump, petal mouth of yours. Kneel down, and show me how well my wilding ways have taught *you* to suck, my beauty.” 

Tongue instantly aflame, Legolas knew only the salty spurt of his elf-knight’s seed would douse his fire, this night. 

* * * 

The Fields of Morannon, One Month Later

The night was the rich, swarthy black of a velvet cloak, fathomless and inscrutable. Mount Doom gurgled like a distempered child in the crimson distance, spitting up its bilious lava ooze. From the two ominous towers of Barad-Dur and Minas Morgul rang cries of such torment, shrieks of such scything serration, and howls of such gutting agony that together they formed a soul-grating torture symphony. To say the swordsmen of the Host of the West were merely disturbed by such seething surroundings would be a grave understatement. 

Yet each soldier, in his own way, held strong to their honorable purpose, to the colossal challenge before them. Though their dim fires burned the eerie green of Shadow’s bane to avoid detection by that all-seeing eye, their huddled tightly around them, needing the warmth of company more than the weak heat of the spindly branches. They kept their gruff voices low, but every one in a while a chorus of raggedy guffaws sounded from one of the circles. The warriors freely shared past adventures, tales of their courageous ancestors, and even future plans with those more endeared to them than perhaps their wives or mothers; none would dare be caught insinuating that they would be ought but victorious in the morrow’s battle, the Last Stand against the Shadow. 

As he meandered through the rows of dark tents, Elrohir marveled at the hardiness of the race of men. To a one, they crouched about their hearths and gave what they could to their weary sword-brothers, whether a extra share of rations, a tipsy yarn, a swath of cloak, or a slap of support. Their camaraderie was effortless, elemental, due as much to valor, solidarity, and an innate sense of nobility than it was to discipline. Even the nobles themselves trolled about the disparate groups, trading barbs with the more colorful warriors, elucidating a strategic move, or spinning a hyperbolic tale of their own. Once every man had been acknowledged, they retired to their own simple hearth to while away the early hours playing whist with the wily dwarf. 

More than ever before, Elrohir wished he belonged among their ranks, to be counted among these garrulous upstarts, to pray with them, to bleed with them. 

Not even the rangers he had know since they were pups wobbling over the northern plains called out to him as he drifted past. Though they were glad enough of his battle strengths, of the merciless strike of his steel, everything about his otherworldly power, his implacable reserve, from the starlit pallor of his skin to the wisdom of ages he expelled with every breath, unnerved them such that they would never truly embrace him as one of their own. Neither did pureborn elves, other than the courteous inhabitants of his Adar’s refuge and the precious few enlightened ones in foreign realms, regard one of his brawn as bequeathed with elven grace. He was apart from every people of this Middle-Earth; not formally outcast, but neither was he welcomed into their bosom. Little wonder he so frequently entertained the idea of continuing in Elros’ poignant tradition. While most Elda in Valinor would always perceive the man in him, once his choice was made, he was sure the Rohirrim would finally accept him as one of their own. 

He would be the Elf-Rider no more, but simply a horseman, a human, a mortal. Of flesh and of blood, of grunt and of grime, of visceral existences and of vital energies, though they were also susceptible to sickness, cold, famine, and age. Elrohir secretly relished the thought of living so primitively, of the rashness of time speeding by, of the immediacy of their impulses. He was not sure if he, as one of half-elven make, would be so entirely affected by the change in his condition, but he could not deny that the opportunity enticed him; to be one with the earth, with its humble children, to be buried in this sacred ground. 

There was but one flaw in his plan, who currently awaited him in the only lantern-lit tent in the compound. His wood-elf. His Mirkwood prince. His most improbable friend. 

His Legolas. 

On this, perhaps the last night of their togetherness, he had not yet found the voice to tell him that, no matter which of them might fall on the morrow, there was a strong chance they would never be reunited. Elrohir was unsure where the Valar might send an uncertain peredhel spirit to rest, should he be struck down before his choice was made, though he had an inkling they would not be so cruel as to condemn him to Mandos. There was only one alternative to the Halls of Awaiting, which held its own allures. If ought, he would finally be able to consult with Elros, as he so desperately wished to now, to finally know what prompted him to choose as he did. Was it the promise of Sauron’s defeat in exchange for his small sacrifice? Was it the homelessness he felt as a child? Was it, as Elrohir daily suffered, the isolation of being shoved between, yet forever apart, from the two greatest races of Middle Earth? To his intense regret, he would never truly know. 

There remained only Legolas, his beacon amidst the brume, his golden champion, his guiding light. He was of two quarrelling minds of how to approach him, this precipitous night. The friend in him wanted them to take ease in ever-constant companionship, to recall anecdotes from their unwieldy lives and to seek the consolation of the other’s steady presence. While their more intimate relations had ever been sporadic, they had always been the most dedicated of friends; as such, their final moments should be spent in fond, chaste complicity. 

Yet both the lover and the elf in him required coddling of a different sort, the kind only found in the sear of flesh on flesh, of girding loins, of wrecking ecstasy. He wanted to thrum to the blighting tattoo of an enraptured heart, wanted to quake and to writhe, to abolish every one of his fears through the primal conflagration of their soul flames. As he had every morn since his timely arrival in Edoras, he would wake heavy with satiation, meld to a lithe, silken form, then be pinched and prodded into wakefulness by a clucking wood-elf afraid he had overly abused him on the previous night. They would stagger into their raiment and fumble with the other’s fastenings, as if between them they could barely lace a tunic in. These early morning moments were the only time Elrohir sensed that they might, somehow, eventually, impossibly, bridge the chasm between their lifelong friendship and their occasional bouts of sensual fever, though to what end he could not say. 

For him, there was naught beyond the coming dawn, the charge, the fight, the most essential battle of their age. The time between was spending quickly; Legolas would grow fretful if he did not meet him soon. Though he was yet unresolved as to which of his perspectives should steal into the archer’s tent, he could not think of abandoning his dearest friend to the terrors of a lonely night. 

As he strode down the furthest row from the Mordor front, he considered how his friend was bearing up under the tremendous strain of this, the quest that had shaped his every choice in life. Better than caving to his own desires, perhaps he should think on how Legolas would prefer to pass the night, his succor and his sheltering ever being Elrohir’s top priority, no matter how craven he might outwardly appear. Certainly, the voraciousness of their recent, relentless coupling sessions was evidence enough of Legolas’ need to vent his bleakest emotions through braising physicality. The woodland prince had not wasted a single rest period in their exhausting journey for sleep alone, ever did he demand, and receive, Elrohir’s favors. Indeed, these had become rather savage of late, whether their raving nights at Dunharrow, their rabid fellating in the close quarters of the Corsair ship, their nights of incessant fucking in Minas Tirith, or his brute, blistering taking on the blood-soaked fields of the Pelennor; Legolas sobbing with gratitude, with relief, keening ‘alive… alive… alive…’ as he thrust into him. Throughout, the scorch of his soul flame had been nearly unbearable, besotting him such that there had been moments when he’d worried that they had inadvertently bound themselves. 

He did not much ponder the consequences of such an act, nor the tenor of Legolas’ reaction to such knowledge, not that either could have rightly penetrated the mithril armor of self-delusion in which he had long arrayed himself. 

His final hour was hardly the moment for epiphany. 

The flaps of Legolas’ tent were the peachy-red color of a tulip bulb, the risky glow enhanced by its location in the shadow of a titanic boulder. Yet there was nary a slender silhouette upon the canvass. Could Legolas have forsaken him for a game of whist with the dwarf? Had he tarried too long on such a nervous night? The only answer he would find would be within; as such, he gulped down a generous, centering breath, then slipped between the entrance folds. 

The Prince of Mirkwood was lounging on his bedroll in naught but his breeches, re-reading the letter his brothers had sent to Gondor after word of the Battle of Helm’s Deep had reached them. Elrohir moved to lie with him, but those piercing sapphire eyes stayed him but steps from the bunk; their bejeweled depths adoring but their order undecipherable. After setting the scroll carefully aside, Legolas sprung to his feet, those shining eyes never wavering even as they closed in on him. Beneath the beam of such intense emotion, Elrohir nearly beat a hasty retreat, but instinctively knew that whatever might transpire this night, whether tragic or thrilling, he must bear through, if only for Legolas’ sake. By now, the golden archer was achingly close, the sheathes of his flaxen mane cascading over his elegant shoulders. Those brilliant eyes flicked down to Elrohir’s plump mouth; his own quivered, frowned, knowing he would be denied. Instead, Legolas unfastened the clasp at his collar, revealing the graceful column of his neck and, at the parting seam, a few sprigs of ebony hair. This quirked a smile from his petal lips, which he licked, leaving no question as to the night’s outplaying. 

“Bare yourself,” Legolas hushly commanded, stepping back to properly admire the powerful peredhel body about to be revealed to him. With a quick nod, Elrohir complied, shedding his garments with deliberate slowness. The woodland prince was never less than rapt upon him, drinking in every tiny detail of his frame, as if to permanently sketch him in his mind’s eye. Yet before long, his aquamarine eyes were fluid with unshed tears, as the weight of the occasion impressed upon him. Elrohir essayed a step forward, but Legolas softly shook his head, then exhaled longly to quiet his more virulent emotions. “All evening, I have been haunted by the thought of our first night together. You, the falcon, and I, the stag, chasing through the enchanted forest, racing after our maturity. I keep envisioning you now as you were then… cawing and cackling through the woods. The hawkish gleam in your eyes as I entered the glade. The lengths of your raven hair against your starlit skin, against the midnight grass, as I claimed you… You were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.” When the last of his raiment was shed and Elrohir stood naked before him, his blue eyes took on a preternatural iridescence, so phosphorous with all shades of longing that the darkling elf was bereft of sense. “You are still that beauty, moren vain. If you should be the last thing I see on this earth, I would pass on peacefully, dreaming of the glories of the land, of your ethereal graces.” 

Legolas broached the distance between them, looked on him with peerless reverence. As those incandescent eyes flattered every slope and slink of his skin, he stroked the elf-knight’s face, grazing over brow, brushing over cheek, raking down his ennobled jaw and smoothing across his pursed mouth. The tenderness implicit in every touch affected him so severely that he wrenched his eyes away, unable to face, to internalize and thus to admit, the fervor of Legolas’ affection for him. 

The archer clipped him by the chin, forced their stares to lock. Those harrowing eyes bore into him anew, brimming with such unspeakable depths of emotion that he began to shake. Legolas cupped his face, coveted his lips anew. Elrohir understood that his golden prince wanted for all the world to kiss him, but found he could not bequeath even him such an intimacy. Not when doom lurked beyond the rippling canvass of their tent. Not when the vow that would be wrought by the sealing of their lips might be broken on the morrow. Not when his will might fly from him at the smoldering press of that sweet mouth, confessing all his secrets away. 

Those he must protect his Legolas from at all and any cost, if only for survival’s sake. 

“*Saes*,” he pleaded with his friend, snatching his hand away from his face and gripping it as if to crush the very bones within. “Saes, I cannot bear this…” 

“Hush,” Legolas soothed him, with a quick nod of compliance. He encircled Elrohir in a loose hold, then rested their brows together, his warm, heady breath ghosting over his face as he spoke. “Come to me, star-rider. I’ve longed for you. I *want* for you. I need your touch to absolve me of my fears. I am so afeard of what’s to come…” 

The woodland prince tugged him into a fierce embrace, buried his face in his hot neck. Elrohir knew then that they would love, ferociously, immaculately, until dawn’s break. Even as the desire engulfed him, even as his engorgement flamed, even as he felt the hard stab of Legolas’ erection in his gut, he sensed the purity of their passion, the righteousness of the searing acts to come. 

In defiance of the Shadow, they would rage with love; if only for a brief, blazing instant. 

* * * 

Minas Tirith, Five Days Later

The silvery light of the crescent moon washed the ravaged gardens sterling. At the behest of a whipping westerly wind, the thick, ominous cast of black cloud had finally dissipated into a cindery mist, which swathed about Emyn Arnen like a crown of smoke. Yet the force of Ithil’s pearlescent sheen bested even the gloomy night, adorning the upturned brush, the scorched pathways, and the raggedy flower beds with a pristine magnificence, as if the garden itself were a shrine to the trials of war. 

Legolas scoured among the vegetal ruins for elusive quarry, that rare blooming bough or preserved blossom spared from the Shadow’s claw. Despite the verdant carnage around him, the wood-elf ferreted about the dirt mounds, branch thickets, and petal shards with sprightly determination, not even the charred remnants of Mordor in the distance tempering his buoyant mood. Every few paces, sparks of tension prickled up his spine; his nerves crackled with both anxiousness and excitement. While he strode through the devastation, his hawkish eyes scavenging for the barest glimpse of color, he tugged at the end of a ribbon wrapped around his aim hand, as if the very touch strengthened his resolve. Yet its crimson stain did not cover a wound, nor did it represent the thousands of kills he had so incisively effected in that last, desperate battle. 

Its meaning was altogether more heartening, one which incited his already exultant spirit to soar to even more hopeful heights. 

Though there had been so many causes for gravity since the toppling of the tower of Barad-dur, Legolas had not suffered one moment’s pause for mourning. While he was certainly not ignorant of the continuous toils of the mannish clans, nor did he lack sympathy for their plight, he simply could not bring himself to glower, nor to brood, not when so suddenly afflicted by the most startling reversal of fortune. Indeed, from the volcanic rage of Mount Doom as the One Ring had melted back into its fell crucible, through the adrenaline-fuelled race to slay as many of the fleeing orcs as possible in the aftermath of their master’s defeat, from the rallying of the uninjured troops to construct litters for those wounded on the precipice of death, to the breakneck ride transporting these back to the bosom of Minas Tirith, Legolas had acted on pure instinct alone, his sensibilities buried deep within. None of the Fellowship had dared even the most fleeting of embraces during those vital hours of hunt, collection, and instant action, lest their tenacity be overwhelmed by their momentous achievement, their leadership incapacitated by fear over Frodo’s ultimate fate. 

Yet as his snowy steed galloped over the ash plains of Ithilien, but a stride behind Aragorn’s, his sterilizing shock had been so stealthily penetrated by realization that his subconscious mind was soon pregnant with a bevy of ripe, incredulous notions, which he had quietly nursed for the entire ride home and steadily nourished in the days that followed. First among these mammoth revelations was, strangely, the most insurmountable: he was alive. Not only had he survived the Great War of their waning Age, but his future stretched for centuries ahead, into the amorphous expanse of uncounted millennia. He could have goals. He could have dreams. Most essentially, he would have a ridiculous, almost gluttonous amount of time, in which to reflect, in which to evolve, in which to exist free of the colossal burden that had weighted upon him since his youngest years. 

Indeed, as the company had skirted along the parched banks of the Anduin, he had felt the very bonds of his Mirkwood duty evaporate into the humid air, then breeze out to sea along the rushing river. He hadn’t been able to repress the waves of effervescent joy that crested within him, nor the impulse to fling out his arms as if to embrace the wind. Aragorn, mistaking his gesture as the need for some refreshment, had dully halted the caravan for a brief respite from their riding. Legolas had not wasted the chance to wade into the tippling waters, to splash his grimy face and to drench his blood-crusted raiment. For an extended time, he had stood, soaked and smiling, against the powerful flow, feeling at once utterly moored in this climactic moment, yet speedily gliding towards some undiscovered country. Yet he could steer himself towards whichever port took his fancy, land wherever he felt safe, found a colony or search the wilds for a perfect space. The entirety of Middle-Earth was outspread before him. He could take part in her replenishment, liberate those so long constrained by the strictures of Silvan law, find a haven for these people, *his* people. He had survived. He was *alive*. 

The last leg of their journey back to the seat of Gondor was a blur, so preoccupied had he been with considering his options. There were so many, so few of which could be solidified until after the King’s coronation, that he had been quite embroiled in thought; such that Gimli had given up soliciting his attention with some sly remark or other. The dwarf, however, had been as keen as they come. He had well known that one starlit vision had lingered in his mind’s eye throughout all his deliberations, one regal visage influenced his every resolution, distracted him from grander schemes, compelled him towards a single point of certitude among his various, sprawling, and unwieldy, ideas. 

He would, at long last, take Elrohir as his mate. 

Legolas had been in an unyielding state of exultation ever since. As he had attended too numerous strategy councils, helped clear the wreckage from the city streets, restrung bows, sharpened daggers, and rounded shields in the armory, his ebullient spirits had not quit; not even when he paused to consider how best to declare himself to his beloved. For he *would* declare himself when the time proved meet for confession, would finally recount to his dear elf-knight of the centuries of untarnished vigilance he had waited through to claim him as his own, of how he had spurned even the most enticing invitation in his hallowed name, of how he had revered him since their first enchanted night together, of the terrible, fiery, and indefatigable love that even now simmered in the deep of his chest. He would not broach any quarrel. He would not be denied. This patient love had lurked in the caverns of his heart for centuries untold, but with their victory it had been unleashed within him, as singeing as dragon’s fire, as effluent as the Falls of Rauros, as immaculate as Elbereth’s own radiance. 

The days that followed had been something of a trial, though not even delay could rightly dissuade him from his course, even if he had only had the briefest glimpse of Elrohir as the company rode off. The brethren, along with some other healers and soldiers charged with foraging for any further dead, had remained behind to tend to those who could not yet be properly transported, but for whom they held the most tenacious of hopes for survival. When, on the third day after the fall, they had finally returned to the white city, the twins had been required immediately in the Healing Halls to perform several amputations, the most harrowing of which had been on a young boy. The parents, of noble blood, had specifically requested that the brethren care for their son, believing that their elvish magicks might sufficiently spell their child that he would not feel any pain. While this had unfortunately not been the case, Legolas would never forget the sight of Elrohir cradling the boy in his arms, distracting him with tales of valor and whispering encouragements to him, as Elladan sliced off his foot. The archer had surreptitiously observed the sorrowful scene among a clutch of soldiers, who had sung in low tones to soothe the child. Yet he had, to his own shame, eyes only for his beauteous elf-knight, for his kindness, for his gallantry. Later, he had word that the brethren were by the outdoor altar, sacrificing to the Valar their gory collection of limbs, but the solemn tenor of their faces had warned him away when he happened by. 

In the two days that followed, Elrohir had made no move to seek him out, which had led him to several, rather despairing moments of doubt. Their coupling had been so ravenous, so brutal in the weeks before the final battle; perhaps, with their bleak hour now past, the Imladrian prince required some measure of self-imposed abstinence in order to properly absorb the events that had nearly swallowed him whole. While Legolas had been awaiting the call of the quest since elflinghood, Elrohir had only had a month to digest the notion of his impending demise. Though none could accuse the esteemed elf-knight of cowardice, there had been so many, some quite emotional, factors at raucous play that none would fault him for exposing some vulnerability in the war’s aftermath. Legolas only wished he would be allowed to succor him in any manner Elrohir might deem necessary, from the long-lost art of listening attentively to other, more sultry preoccupations. 

Then, suddenly, he *had* been summoned. On this soft night, at table with Eomer and Aragorn, a servant had slipped him a scarlet-sash scroll. Though he made a show of perusing the contents, there was not a scratch of ink upon the parchment. Indeed, twas the ribbon itself that was the message. ‘Come to me,’ the symbol told him, a longtime sign of beckoning between them. ‘I await you in my bedchamber.’ Legolas’ spirits had surged such at the reception of the timely document that he had nearly leapt from the table at once, but by Aragorn’s wry look he knew he best conceal the reason for his departure through the feint of after-dinner repartee. He had no concept of his success, though he did not overly ruminate over such incidental matters, not in his current, frazzled state.

This was the litmus moment of his future life, the one that would affect every subsequent decision. While his jubilant emotions made him brave enough to charge forth into uncertainty, he was ever conscious that Elrohir was perhaps not as far along the road to soulful recovery as he. Indeed, he suspected that the elf-knight would only slowly re-immerse himself into the flow of life; as such, his announcement would not be met with instant acceptance. Legolas had to remind himself to calmly assuage every doubt that might rear itself, to be explicit in retelling the toll of his pining, to envelop his dearest one in such a doting embrace that he could not dare refute him. 

His loving would be deliberate, adoring, a meticulous wooing of his darkling beloved, not the voracious groping of the past weeks. They would indulge in a long bath, anoint themselves with fragrant oils. He would sup on every succulent swatch of Elrohir’s porcelain skin, drink in the feral musk of his bracken clefts until he was utterly besotted with his scent. He would lick and lap his peredhel in all those unseemly places he had not had access to since their earliest explorations: burrow his nose in the bed of his arm, tease his tongue along the salty underside of his knees, smear his lips up the back of his sensate ears, suckle a toe or two in passing. He would stave off more salacious maneuvers until they were both absolutely liquid with desire. Once primed, he would curl them up in a tight twist of gangly limbs, then murmur such heated troths into that teardrop ear that the invisible wisps of hair within will be singed away. Elrohir might squirm, then, or writhe in lascivious torment, or perhaps even weep some, until he was so swollen with feeling that he would beg Legolas to mate with him, intensely, luxuriously, with everlasting rapture. 

Even if he proved initially doubtful, Elrohir could not deny them their eternity. Its promise had been implicit in every molten mating of their bodies, in every sunrise they had shared, in every tender caress. They simply belonged together. 

After an hour of gouging through swamps of mulch, Legolas finally spied, shielded by the overturned stone columns of the archway, a patch of eleanor. Once the trowel he had brought was seized upon, he plunked the shale-spackled pot he had prepared down, then proceeded to uproot several of the flowers. These he embedded in the layer of rich topsoil he had already ‘borrowed’ from a neighboring royal’s own gardens, which had been spared the worst of the attack. He covered the resulting plant in a gauzy cloth, lest those that still loomed about the halls at this late hour suspect him of courting a lady. Rather pleased with his find, a contentment that only amplified his overall air of fervent, yet fretful, euphoria, he scooped up the pot, tucked the gift under his arm, and hastened off into the torchlit corridors of the Citadel. 

Fate itself awaited him, down the eastern wing. 

*

By the sodden, sensuous look of him, Elrohir had just emerged from the bath. Those enrapturing lengths of ebony hair slunk down his slender back, over his bare shoulders, as flattering to his opalescent skin as the velvety sarong slung around his slim hips. While long weeks of the most crucial exertion imaginable had cinched that skin taut over his muscles, these were strung so sinuously along his broad frame as to prove almost lethal to one so enamored of him as Legolas, who found he could do naught, once invited into the sparely furnished bedchamber, other than gawk appreciatively. 

Elrohir smirked; his silver eyes soft, shimmering in the torchlight. 

“A gift?” he queried, calling Legolas back from his elaborate raking of the elf-knight’s feral form. 

“An offering, of sorts,” Legolas instructed, scanning the room for the perfect place to set his package down. He chose the desk, already strewn with interrupted correspondence, near enough to the window to provide necessary sunlight, yet at proper vantage from the bed to be admired upon woozy awakening each morn. Once positioned, Legolas took great pleasure in the unveiling, the golden blooms even more astonishing than he had remembered. Appropriately, Elrohir gasped in surprise. “A reminder, perhaps, of the purpose of our mission, of the preciousness of this hard-won time. Of the splendor that awaits us, in victory’s aftermath…” 

Both had been studiously avoiding any overt reaction to the other’s most incredible presence, to the fact of their reunion here, safe and whole. Upon his entrance, Elrohir had set aside his hairbrush and risen graciously from his bed, but had not betrayed the slightest hint of the emotions swirling within him. They had begun to flare at the sight of a golden head among the orc-hunters on a faraway shelf of the Morannon; they had not ceased for a second in the tumultuous days that followed suit. Indeed, they were at present an insufferable, utterly confused mire of intentions, expectations, fears, and frustrations. Yet until that very moment, he had been attempting to treat the aftermath of their battle as any before, part of the routine of errantry he was long accustomed to. If he had perhaps, deliberately, if pressed unconsciously, evaded any obvious chance at meeting cute with Legolas, then he convinced himself twas simply to spare both of them the temptation of being so close, but unable to truly express themselves. Yet here, in the tense quiet of his own bedchamber, he had not been able to welcome his friend home with ought but a twinkle of warmth, with shameful distance and with haughty reserve. By Legolas’ fraught visage, he had wanted to launch himself into Elrohir’s arms the second he stepped through the threshold. The darkling elf had secretly hoped that his Silvan impulsiveness would overtake him, but this had not been the case. 

The revelation of the eleanor, however, had wrecked havoc within. Their significance was unquestionable; these delicate golden blooms that had survived the Shadow’s most ferocious wrath, meant to evoke another, even more precious Greenwood flower that had not been withered by the trials of war, that would now flourish in peacetime. A golden elf of incomparable valor, who was at present foisting a gaze of such fluid emotion at him that he found himself gasping for breath. Before he could rein himself in sufficiently to address this gorgeous, impetuous, unabashedly mercurial elf, he was striding quite adamantly towards him, cupping his face with unbearable reverence and softing such pillowy lips over his own, that he could naught but unleash the terrible, hounding emotions within. 

The kiss was utterly breathtaking. Legolas forced nothing upon him, but smoothed and sipped with such gentility that Elrohir almost wished for a touch of cruelty. These were not the flimsy explorations of unskilled youths, nor the consoling caresses of those bereft by loss, nor the fervent pillaging of two elves flamed with desire. His lips were parted only to be suckled, his mouth hardly delved. Tongue-tips flirted, teasing, tempting, but with such purity of intention he nearly swooned. A hot, heady exhalation ghosted over his cheeks, then the luscious agony continued; these tender ministrations conveying such impossible affection that Elrohir eventually had to break away. Though he wrenched his face to the side, the torture pressed on, fluttering the sweetest, most luring kisses over his brow, cheeks, shut eyes, anything to claim those lips again. 

The archer’s doting attentions stirred such a riot of pain within him that he set firm hands on his chest and gently pushed him back, argent eyes hard as mithril ore. Yet Legolas’ aqua eyes were trenchantly insistent, imploring him, boring into him, floridly alive with feeling. 

*Alive*, Elrohir realized, more affected by this truth than ever before. They were both alive. 

“Legolas,” he whispered, unable in such a poignant moment to unravel his knotty emotions enough to make coherent sense of them. Yet he must, if he is to keep from inadvertently bruising, wounding, or, worse, abandoning his friend to heartache, for he had more than a faint inkling of what was to come.

His fears would soon prove horrifically accurate. 

“Do not fret, moren vain,” Legolas cooed, beckoning him back into that succoring embrace with outstretched arms. “The Shadow’s conquest has seen our liberation. We are free, Elrohir! Loosed upon the wilds of Arda like two hardy pilgrims, to settle where we would, to make our own way, to aid in the replenishment of this scarred land and to build ourselves a home in its berth.” Though the archer’s ebullience had seemed irrepressible only seconds before, he suddenly turned somewhat timid, riled by circumstance. Undaunted by his own tickling worries, he strode forth, grasped his hands and gripped them fiercely. “I am servant no longer to the mad whims of the Mirkwood King. I belong to no realm nor ruler… only… only to your very self, Elrohir, if you will have me.”

Befuddled by his strange words, Elrohir sighed: “I would no more rule over you, Legolas, than suffer the slings and arrows of Mordor anew. You are your own counsel, gwador, and a wise one, at that. I am sure you will choose well for yourself.” 

Reversing his words with a startling deftness, Legolas declared: “My heart has chosen well, indeed, my dearest one, for you are a rare pearl in the crown of Noldor nobles, of such generosity of spirit, of such a giving nature, of such relentless valor, and of such incomparable beauty that your luminescence outshines Ithil herself. I have been spellbound since the moment I beheld you in that midsummer glade, so entranced by your grace, your effluent kindness to a humble, awkward wood-elf, that I have not allowed another’s touch to taint me since.” 

Shocked down to his toes, Elrohir went so limp that Legolas immediately snatched him up into a strong, ardent hold. 

“But surely…?” he bleat, beginning to tremble. “In your travels, your errantry…”

“*Never*,” Legolas swore, his lips flirting with a cunning smirk. “None even hinted at the graces I beheld in you, my dear one. How could I dare lay with another? You have ever been the most bountiful promise with which Elbereth has blessed me.” 

“Legolas,” he repeated, but had no sly remark to counter such reddening praise. 

“Ever have I loved you,” he pledged, with such earnestness Elrohir was abashed. “Ever have you been the epitome of goodness, wisdom, gallantry… all I have ever craved or cherished in a love relation. I want you, star-rider. I want to dote upon you for ages to come, want to sate you for nights everlasting, want to restore this ravished land with you and… devote myself to our eternity. I love you so, Elrohir.” As if this emphatic commitment were not sufficient, he added a caution. “Go gently, as you hold my very heart in your hands.” 

With a ragged sigh, Elrohir pressed their foreheads together, as if silently praying for the Lady’s guidance in this wretched matter. Though Legolas’ strong arms were still vigilantly twined around him, he had never felt so dejected, so alone. The death knell of their friendship rung loud about his heavy head, though he could not do ought but give the Mirkwood prince the truth of his own, irresolute heart. Twas no decent answer for him, but so little he had witnessed in their battles these weeks had involved decency, honor, or nobility. Perhaps in this, most of all, he was most vociferously of mankind. 

“Tis for that very reason that our relations must cease forthwith,” Elrohir whispered, even as he drew courage from the shelter of his lover’s arms. “I would spare you any further anguish. I would that you embrace this life so calamitously bequeathed you and know… know its plenty.”

If Legolas was upset by his words, he concealed his feelings well. 

“The Shadow has sickened your soul in ways I dare not imagine, melethen,” Legolas hushly remarked, easing away to lock their eyes. “Long have I known of your inner suffering, of how you struggled to express… even the sparest emotion. I am not fooled by this brave front you present, I know how scathingly you berate yourself, how poorly you count yourself made. Let me succor you, Elrohir. Let me be the balm to your ailing spirit.” 

With a soft curse, Elrohir withdrew from his arms. 

“Nay,” he barely exhaled. “I will not infect you, of all, maltaren, with what has plagued me since my very birth. Indeed, I am more certain than ere before that we… we must pour our energies into the maintenance of our great friendship, for I would not bequeath *that* blessing to any other. I hold you most tenderly dear, Legolas, you must know that…”

“Let me court you, then,” Legolas anxiously interrupted him, growing ever more concerned at his shroud countenance. “If I am too adamant in my demands tis only spurned on by the fervor of my regard for you, star-rider. We need not speed into a more involved relation, we have been gifted the luxury of time.” 

“*You*, Legolas, have such luxury,” Elrohir bleakly responded. “As I do not…” He drifted over to the eleanor plant, caressed the golden petals as if a lover’s cheek. He shut his eyes. “I have not… yet made my choice.” 

“Your choice?” Legolas started, confounded. “Which choice?” 

“To be of elfkind,” Elrohir confirmed, so low as to defy audibility. The stillness that suddenly surrounded him seeped into his very core. “Indeed, I… I presently feel that I… I may choose the fate of men.” The emptiness about was such that Elrohir thought, for a brief moment, that Legolas had fled. Yet a halting breath was sucked in, as the archer fought to keep counsel, to confront this dire information with a direct assault. “I would not spend my remaining years watching one so glorious as you, Legolas; indeed, one who has been such a guiding light through… I would not suffer your fading, not for one so unworthy of your… your rather fervent affections.”

“My fever equals your worth,” Legolas rasped, his throat parched. “Though you refuse to mark it.” 

“I see only how you shine, my dearest friend,” Elrohir told him, quicksilver eyes gazing rapt upon him. “I will not be the shadow over your heart.” 

“Then seize it!” Legolas implored him. “Claim it for your own! How can you forgo our happiness, even if fleeting?!” 

“You would fade,” Elrohir counters, near exasperation. For one accused of pushing off his emotions, they were currently consuming his innards with leonine ferocity. 

“Then I will fade!” he bellowed, already grieving inwardly at the thought of how corrosive Elrohir’s despair must be to deny him so. 

“Nay,” Elrohir exhaled, all his forcefulness left him. “*Nay*.” 

Before he could take another breath, his mouth was mauled by a kiss so scorching, so obstinate, so utterly immolating that he could only cling to the archer’s crushing embrace. They broke off just as suddenly, then eyes as piercing as dagger-cut diamonds bore into his misty attentions, aflame with conviction. His archer’s face was so livid with fury, yet so fired with passion, Elrohir feared he might snap his neck. 

“Do not dare think, peredhel, that I will let you go quietly,” Legolas snarled, his most potent words underlined with a jolting shake. Elrohir did not know what primordial force he had unleashed with his black revelation, but its confrontation demanded his every reserve of diplomatic skill. “I will not forsake you now. I am uncertain what task, feat, or triumph I must effect to prove my worthiness, what manner of vile beast I must combat to ensure our togetherness, but mark my words, I will best them. The warrior you so foolishly choose to contend with is no gentle willow to be blown about by your glowering bluster. I am the Mirkwood’s champion, the finest archer in Arda entire. I have denied the One Ring. I have railed against the Shadow. I have seen the destruction of Mordor itself. Most potently, I am the elf that took your majority, lest you have so repressed that golden time as to abolish its memory entire. I am the one who knows you best, Elrohir. So you best rest, bathe, feast, revel, take your ease! Tend the sick, help the poorly, fetch your sister for our valiant King. For when I stake my claim upon you, when I have rallied my forces and come charging for your ravaged heart, there will be no denying the passion that ensues, nor the wholeness of my love blazing within you. Of this, if naught else, you *can* be certain.” 

As if to sear his claims onto the very skin of his lips, Legolas took his mouth anew. By the time he tore himself away, Elrohir could barely stand. 

“May your dreams be splendorous, bountiful in the nights to come,” the archer wished him, bowing humbly before taking his leave. “Think of me.” 

With that, Elrohir found himself alone. 

* * * 

Two months later

The rosy plumes of an early summer dawn fanned over the fuming embers of Mordor in the distance, as Elladan clopped down to the stables with the sure, spry step of one utterly at ease with his place in the world at large, yet primed to embark on his latest adventure about its gloried wilds. That this would involve a reunion with his bonded only amplified his excitement to an unconscionable degree, enough to lure him out of bed at this early hour, to admire the rising sun with a smile of equal radiance. The white domes of the city below were covered in a glistening sheen of dew, with barely a hint of the repairs that so recently restored them to a regal splendor not witnessed since the Second Age. A tempest of considerable bluster had struck the previous night, which suited the elf-warrior just fine. The lush fields would be drenched in tones of peach and of gold as they rode out towards Lorien to meet their sister’s escort, the ground just moist enough for a sure gallop; the perfect conditions for any noble equestrian, and especially suitable for the departure of two elven princes from the Seat of Gondor. 

Upon reaching the stables, he remarked the open doors clattering in the sharp breeze. The woodsy scent of wheat and thistle permeated the misty morning air, though the pungent smell of damp hide did waft out from the riper stalls. Curiously, not a whinny, grunt, or snort sounded from the usually garrulous war horses, even as his boots crunched down the thin, gossamer covering of hay over the main aisle. Yet not a squire was about by the disheveled look of the place. The groomsmen had not yet been roused by the cock, let alone finished their ration of porridge, so what brazen creature dared steal into the royal stables unbidden? What manner of thief tempted the patience of the newly crowned King by disrupting the already tenuous peace among the prize stallions of his army? As Elladan neared the last rung of stalls, where his own majestic horse foraged in his trough, he had the likeliest answer expected. 

A wood-elf. 

Typical of the Silvan elves to have no compunction about readying their steeds before filling their own bellies. Yet Legolas was hardly occupied with brushing down his own snowy horse. Instead, his nimble archer’s fingers deftly worked through the black, wiry mane of Elrohir’s ride, which had already been groomed with explicit care by the golden prince. The fiercely loyal stallion had been rendered as docile as a marmalade kitten by the elf’s doting ministrations. Virgor, who often hissed at the doves cooing in the rafters, was presently neighing as if corralled in with a tawny mare. Indeed, his own Velome chomped his oats with considerable etiquette, considering he usually insisted on being fed by hand. Elladan knew not what manner of Silvan sorcery the woodland elf had conjured to tame both their steeds, but he, for one, was grateful. Their journey would be far swifter if their stallions were in high spirits, which he did not doubt a certain, rather conniving Mirkwood prince also had in mind. 

If only Legolas could be so meticulous, and yet so shrewd, in the tending of his brother’s frail heart. 

Elladan was daily thankful that, in the months since the Shadow’s fall, there had been tasks aplenty to occupy the three elven advisors to the King of Gondor, else two of these rather unwise elven warriors may very well have been driven to dive off the jutting tip of the Citadel’s courtyard to their obliterating end on the fields of the Pelennor. He never ceased to marvel at how Legolas and Elrohir seemed to thrive on inner torment, their thorny, unwieldy relationship ever at odds with their perpetually unmentionable desires. Even though Legolas had recently, and rather foolishly in Elladan’s esteem, declared himself to his bewildered brother, that he had elected to do so at possibly the most vulnerable moment of Elrohir’s existence had been nothing short of disastrous. 

Though Elladan often ruminated quite longly on what provoked circumstance might indeed force them to acknowledge the devotion they have held tight within for nearly three millennia of dearest friendship, and rarely came to any sort of deployable resolution to the trouble, he had been stunned by how gauchely Legolas had proceeded. Indeed, he had felt more than a touch of guilt himself, when he had finally pried the tale out of Elrohir the following evening, as he could easily, had he been more observant, warned Legolas off such a bold maneuver so soon after their return from the most unsettling battle of their still young lives; one that had plunged his already confounded twin into a miasma of conflicting emotions, of irreconcilable demands, and of inescapable despair, through the sheer, dumb luck of his survival. That Elrohir had subsequently been able to contain this festering abyss within himself and to focus on the tending of the gory wounded about spoke as readily to his uncredited strengths as it did to his rather virulent masochistic streak. Glorfindel had often remarked to him that wartime brought about not the good nor the ill in one’s character, but the best of what is the worst of each and the worst of what is most winning; he had not truly understood him until he had witnessed the floundering triumphs and the fantastic disasters of this unique relationship between peredhel and wood-elf. 

Although their blundering about oft proved abundantly endearing to him, the results were in every way excruciating to behold. Indeed, one might be hard-pressed to believe them warriors of colossal strength, skill, and wiles, so infantilized were they by their sorrows. In his mind, the madness had begun far back upon the Fellowship’s departure from Imladris, where instead of timidly confessing their long-hewn regard, the pair of them decided to rut like rabbits in threat of being spade. This furious groping had continued apace, no admission ventured when a grind would do nicely, until the very night before the Shadow’s fall, when still his two dear dunderheads were too skittish to commit themselves, to tempt the fates by imagining a blissful future. Survival, of all hallowed calamities, had polarized them further; Legolas intoxicated by the very breaths he gulped down like a drunkard on a binge and Elrohir’s already feeble stability spun into such a vertiginous whirligig that he staggered into free-fall. Though from that time they had kept their distance, both had been wholly engaged in rapt scrutiny of the other’s tactics, while still creeping about as if across the thin ice of a pond. 

Elrohir had presently walled himself into his own rather precious fortress of inner solitude, where oft not even Elladan was allowed. He gloomed about the Healing Halls until he was in jeopardy of disturbing one of the patients, obsessing over every minor detail of their care. At night, he confined himself to quarters, receiving only the most tenacious of guests. He feigned graciousness when forced to attend some function, but Elladan knew he was sullen, inwardly forlorn, ever conscious of where Legolas was positioned, with whom he was conversing, and waiting rather miserably for any chance at rote conversation with the woodland prince; their bland, public niceties as treasured as jewels. His agony was such that Elladan oft wished he could suffer for him, but he instinctively knew only time would encourage his twin to unburden himself, to engage with those about, to embrace life anew. 

Legolas’ currently strategy was, exasperatingly, of ridiculous stealth. He provided Elrohir with far too ample space with which to roam unhindered by any reminder of his declaration, departing for small strings of days to ferret out yet another nest of orcs, as if deliberately excavating the gulf between them with the odd goal of enlargement. When about the Citadel, he was at best a phantom presence, though a generous one. Elrohir would oft return to his bedchamber to discover that his bath had been drawn, a robe laid out for his leisure and a book waiting atop the coverlet. The royal cooks would, quite suddenly, be provided with the ingredients to his favorite dishes, though these were so rare about the lands as to be considered a foreign delicacy. At his erratic appearances in the common hall, the minstrels would strike up a preferred tune and a lost carafe of miruvor would be procured from the near-hollow cellars; in the privacy of Aragorn’s study, a serving maid would be sent to massage his weary shoulders. His armor would be mysteriously restrung, his sword blade polished, or his boots shined. Flower petals would be discovered in pockets, between the sheets of a scroll, in the folds of a towel, or strewn across his bathwater. Legolas was the most adoring of invisible mates, the object of his affections never overburdened by the grace of his presence. Thus, said object was free to overlook these tenderly meant gifts and pleasures, as if proof of nothing more than the servants’ complicity to one of estimable birth, endeared to their master the King. 

Verily, they infuriated him with their witlessness. He had had no option but to resolve to interfere. He would do so subtly, inadvertently, through casual and heartfelt advice that could very well be ignored, but better that than loose two of the dearest beings imaginable. He would admit his action was partially a tribute to his own luminous mate, whose golden graces had so imbued him with an aura of goodwill that he could not help but brighten more sallow spirits with its hale glow. He was fortunate to have so accidentally come upon his first melancholic prince, in the very act of performing one of his unseen philanthropies. 

With just enough ruckus to announce his presence, Elladan trod up to the open stall where Virgor was enjoying a vigorous rub-down. Legolas was so intent on his chore that he did not start in surprise until well after the darkling elf was leaning against the solid wood frame, a smirk twining his lips. Some gentle taunting never hurt one’s cause, especially in affairs of the heart. The archer, caught out, blushed a vivid red, then hastened an unnecessary apology. 

“I did not mean to intrude, I-” he stammered, then gasped. “Elladan! I thought…” His blush deepened, but his stature straightened, eased. “Forgive me, gwador.”

Elladan realized that his friend had not initially recognized him. The trouble was, apparently, more severe than he had feared, with Legolas’ senses so frazzled by distress that he missed even the most fundamental signals from his intuition. 

“You are kind to be so thoughtful,” Elladan noted his efforts. “We will ride swift and far, this day.” 

“They are primed for the journey,” the archer appraised, unable to stifle a smile. “The road itself will ease them, methinks. They have been too long cloistered, the grooms too overwhelmed by the sheer volume of horses to exercise them daily.” 

“Aye, we will all benefit from some airing out,” Elladan pointedly remarked. “The stallions, the soldiers, the city… Gondor itself. We are caught in the winds of change, with all the uncertainty and upheaval such inclimate weather brings. Twill be some time, yet, before the dust settles.” He moved towards his friend, who could not help but avert his somber eyes. The elf-warrior lay a consoling hand on his arm, squeezing it fondly. “Neither your strains nor your pains have gone unnoticed, my brave one. Even if he withdraws himself from company, we who attend him owe you an enormous debt. Do not relent your care.” 

“I could not, by any act of my own will, deny him, refute him, ignore him,” Legolas sighed, bereft. “Yet he shuns my overtures, as if I were a stranger.” 

“You have been, these last months,” Elladan gently underlined. “Your efforts are for naught, if you are not there to claim your compliments.”

“I do not wish to pressure him into a match,” Legolas insisted. “He knows my heart.” 

“Yet his confusion stems not from the knowing of your regard, in which he has basked since youthful years,” Elladan softly explained. “But from the grandeur of opportunity so suddenly granted him. You are hardly the cause of his bewilderment, Legolas, though in truth your declaration has only served to further unmoor him. Yet you must be his anchor to this world, to this life. My brother has ever been a humble elf. He likes quiet gatherings, solitary tasks, the few risks he has ever ventured have been in the company of a trusted friend, in the security that comes with complicity. To win him in this unstable time, you must give him a solid hold with which he can ground himself, yet space enough to find his own way. He will adapt, in time; but there must be time allowed for adaptation, for familiarization with this new, peaceful way of life.” 

The archer digested this with a mush mouth, a few doubts still gnawing at him. 

“But what if he should choose the fate of men whilst in this unbalanced state?” he demanded, fraught with concern. 

“That is why your friendship is most vital to him,” Elladan reminded him. “The only constant in your dizzying relationship. Physical acts are fleeting pleasures, the first pangs of love are apt to be discordant within one so tensely strung as he, but he will carry the mellifluous feeling of your fellowship wherever he may wander. Elrohir would rather surrender himself to the Shadow-hounds than betray the trust of a friend. Tis thus that the flames of love are kindled into a fire; not through bold declaration, but through relentless care. These small kindnesses are a proper foundation, but they must be emphasized by the availability of your open ear, your regular attendance to his strives and sorrows, some frolicking distraction about the plains. Do not relent in your attentions, merely soften their intent some. Seek not to overwhelm him with the force of your adoration, but coddle him with compassion, with understanding, as in times past. In younger years, you were most attuned to his moods, his woes, to the violent tides that move within him.” 

“He was simpler, then,” Legolas countered, his frustration mounting. 

“He is not so unwieldy now,” Elladan parried. “His wants are confounded by the fracture of our family, but this may very well be mended with new binds. Stronger binds.” 

“I seek to bind with him!” Legolas shot back, hotly aggravated by his obtuseness. 

“I know well of your intentions, gwador,” Elladan placated him, laying a hand over his rapid-fire heart. The archer bristled at the gesture, swallowed hard, and listened further. “But a bonded is only one being. Of elemental necessity, but hardly all-encompassing.” He thought a moment, then chose a different tact. “Tell me, why did you and your brothers so relish your sojourns in Imladris? Was it simply the carnal pleasures? The beauty of the valley? The freedom allowed you? If you felt shunned by the Noldor there, would you have been so eager to return?” 

“Nay, for certes,” Legolas assured him, wondering at this sudden shift of thought but willing to stay the course. “Indeed, I often felt more welcomed there than in my Adar-King’s palace of stone.” 

“Tis that very sense of community that Elrohir incessantly craves,” Elladan responded. “Ever did he thrive in the hush of winter, when just our family was about. He loved nothing more than to laze by the fire with friends and consorts, with our cherished circle. When Nana was so grievously beset… a shroud was cast over the Homely House. The valley itself seemed to mourn her passing, our very hearth tainted by the Shadow’s black influence. We could not bear to rest our mantle there for more than a quick season, even Arwen fled to Lorien as oft as naught. We lost our home, and have yet to recover it.” After a lengthy pause, he finished his advisement. “If you wish to reclaim his heart, then you must first restore his faith in our people. Only then will he choose to be counted among them.”

Legolas met his piercing eyes, silently absorbed their plea. 

“So I am charged, gwador,” Legolas confirmed, with a faint smile. “I am fortunate indeed to be so well-regarded by one so dear to my beloved.” 

“There are many about who would champion your cause,” Elladan informed him. “If you care to court their favors. A cunning warrior cannot have too many tricks in his arsenal.” 

“Indeed,” Legolas smirked, then clasped his hand in the warrior’s salute. 

The crisp snap of a hay strand a few paces back announced the advent of the elf-knight himself, whose presence instantly caused Legolas to blush anew. His color was matched on Elrohir’s cheeks, their bashful eyes fleeing south after a brief flirtation. Virgor snorted testily, demanding his due reverence, with which Elrohir, in his distraction, obediently complied. He nuzzled the stallion’s snout with unrivalled affection, petting and caressing his sinuous neck. The horse proved equally effusive, nudging his rider’s cheek and neighing amiably. Before long, Elrohir was nothing less than astounded. 

“He has not been so soft since he was a gelding,” he remarked to none in particular, unsure of the circumstances. “And smells as sweet as heather, a feat in itself.” 

“He is raring for a ride,” Legolas assayed with studied composure, though gave a fond pat to the wild steed’s rump. “He was only too willing to be doted upon, if such daintiness portended a journey.” 

“You prepared him?” Elrohir queried, with more ease than he certainly felt. “Have the grooms grown so neglectful? Perhaps we should inform the King.” 

“Verily, twas no trouble,” Legolas assured him, brushing casual strokes over his chestnut hide. “In truth, we are friends of old. He but wanted my soothing. I was only too glad to attend him, as he is dear to me.” 

“I had not realized you were so complicit with my steed,” the elf-knight laughed, to poorly disguise the potent effect of his words. 

“He bears you through battle, through storm,” Legolas told him, daring a step forward. “Carries you home from lands afar. Tenderness is the least I owe him.” 

“Aye, he is valorous indeed,” Elrohir praised, resting his cheek on the silky mane. His silver eyes, however, met with iridescent blue. “I could not long do without him.” 

The air about suddenly swelled with warmth, a silent message was passed between them. 

“We best be off soonest,” Elladan broke in, only too aware of the golden vision awaiting him beneath the towering mallorn trees. “With his legendary temperament.” 

“If not in consideration of your own,” Legolas snickered, his eyes never quitting Elrohir, who smiled demurely. “Or that of the unruly Balrog-slayer himself.” 

“To say naught of poor Estel,” Elrohir added, his voice barely a whisper. His words were tremulous, but their aim sure. “Denied his lady for so many lonely months. For so long he may not even know what to do with her, when at last she comes to him.” 

“He will find his way, with time, and her sweet consolation,” Legolas responded, then gave a last slap to the horse’s flank. “And you, my great friend, must bear the banner proudly! The Queen’s escort, bound for her glorious throne!” 

“Verily, gwador, you need not flatter him further!” Elladan huffed. “The beast is already as bold as a legion of broke-backs.”

“Methinks you will meet with a volley of soot,” Legolas affably chided, offering his hand. “If you do not mind that sly tongue of yours.” After another ardent clasp, he wished him off. “May the Lady’s grace light your way, Elladan.” 

“Be well, Legolas,” the elf-warrior grinned. “And be assured, my tongue will be rather preoccupied, upon our advent in Lorien.” 

Still shaking his head in bemusement, he turned to Elrohir, also offering him his arm, in good faith for the journey ahead. To his shock, the elf-knight pushed past this lax appendage to envelop him in a forceful hug. Even as Legolas wrapped his arms around him, his brother gave no signs of relenting his embrace, such that Elladan thought best to leave them be. 

He could not rightly predict what might pass between them, but hoped a journey of another sort had finally begun. 

End of Part 5


	6. Chapter 6

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Six

Minas Tirith, Year 3019, Third Age

On this radiant summer noon, Anor blazed fierce at the apex of the sky, as if a beacon of hope atop Emyn Arnen. The White City of Kings, draped in banners of starlit silver and of royal blue to honor the imminent nuptials of its sovereign returned, gleamed like a pearl amidst the aqua climes of a southern ocean, so clear was the sky above. If the day was positively jubilant, so were the people of Minas Tirith, whose fastidious preparations and efficacious repairs veritably bristled with rapt anticipation. The hard-won city, indeed the realm at large, was in dire need of some raucous celebration, which its bashfully enamored ruler was only too eager to provide, seeing as this would be in tribute to the culmination of his own, enduring romance. 

As he galloped through the whitewashed streets, a passel of hares hung from his bow and two fat boars flung over the rum of his steed, Legolas found the very air he drank in was as heady as brandy wine, as if poured from the very font of loving devotion. After centuries of the cruelest strife imaginable and months of raising devastation, the Gondorian people were downright rabid for renewal, for the restoration of familial bond and for the replenishment of their personal fortunes. As such, brothers banded together to corral the remains of their loss-fractured family, the briefest flirtations soon became betrothals, children were treasured as if a hidden store of jewels, each citizen only too anxious to foster unity, fraternity among their fellows. The admirable example set by the Fellowship of the Ring itself trickled down to the tanners, farmers, and tradesmen of the capital town, the goodwill of the hobbits, the cantankerousness of the dwarf, the grace of the elves, and the hardiness of men illustrated the absolute vitality of togetherness in this new era of peace. The wedding would even reconcile the Dunedain clan’s elven heritage with the mortal-lead future, as Arwen was sprung from the very same twin source as mankind, the peredhil brothers Elrond and Elros. Verily, twas a time of plenty for all the tribes of Arda.

Despite his vow to embody the very epitome of good cheer, Legolas could not help but be goaded by such an excited atmosphere, such spirited warmth about. Though he would rather down a trough of orc ooze than waver in his support of Aragorn, every desperate clinch, flirty touch, or stolen kiss he accidentally witnessed bittered the very blood in his veins. No matter how he might attempt to convince himself that their friendship had been imperiled by his hasty declarations, that Elladan had wisely counseled him that morn in the stables, that if Elrohir had indeed succumbed to his ardor out of fear they would be charging towards a falsely-sworn bond, in the face of such saccharine gestures of love he could only wish that he, too, might be allowed to indulge in them with the object of his fervent affection. 

If he was honest, he quite desperately wanted to be bedazzled by his beloved’s twinkling charms, to be flattered ruddy by his elf-knight’s every scorching look across the banquet table, to be wooed by the one most precious of all. He was exhausted by his relentless longing, pining for one ever beyond his considerable reach. The challenge of claiming the Imladrian prince’s heart was more harrowing than the quest itself, for his tireless exertions went entirely without reward, except for the fleeting, treacherous consolation of Elrohir’s bed. Yet even this was denied him since he had blundered so foolishly, charging forth when he should have stealthily crept in. Though he had yearned, in the last month, for the queen’s escort to arrive, a greater part of him wondered if he could bear through the ceremony itself, as, by mannish custom, he would be required to stand directly across from Elrohir on the altar. To gallantly refrain from foisting a stare of gutting incisiveness upon his darkling love would be a feat of valor unparalleled in all his military accomplishments, thank Elbereth Gimli will be there to smack some sense into him, should he fail himself. 

All in all, this hallowed time for Gondor would be naught but agony for him, through which he could not even rely on the peerless consolations of his beloved one. 

As his snowy steed raced through the gates to the Citadel, Legolas sat tall in the saddle, lest any guard catch a whiff of his resignation and report back to his ever-vigilant King. To his surprise, the courtyard currently resembled an equestrian market in Rohan, with no less than a dozen varieties of horse crowded around the bubbling fountain at its center. Indeed, there was not a groom to be had, as each already had at least four or five sets of reins in hand. Legolas swiftly concluded that the Evenstar had come to shine over her newly city at last, though her escort alone could hardly account for the herds grazing about. Puzzled, but hardly embroiled, by the mystery, he guided his mildly ruffled steed over to his stall, delivered his yield to the only too grateful cooks, then skulked off to his bedchamber to wash off his three day hunt. Both Elrohir and Elladan would be far too preoccupied by family affairs for the greater part of the afternoon, so he best wile away his time on the archery ground, where Gimli could no doubt be found. 

An hour later, fresh as a sprig of elanor, he slipped out into the corridor as surreptitiously as possible. There was no telling what manner of Noldor relation was wandering these halls, only too glad to drag an unsuspecting wood-elf into the thick of Elrond’s family reunion. Though many already counted him as one of the tribe, his presence would unduly agitate Elrohir, which would not serve his cause in the slightest. Fraught as he may be over their unspoken estrangement, however tenuously bandaged it may have been before the elf-knight’s departure for Lorien, he was not so dense as to openly court his beloved’s ire by intruding upon a private moment, however welcome he may appear to be. Yet no matter what his reservations, he was frankly not in the mood, at present, to play at politeness, nor for the haughty politicking of Aragorn’s advisors. He wanted a target, a tight-strung bow, a cup of wine from the vineyards of Belfalas; the hot sun beating down on his brow. He wanted to launch quiver after quiver of arrows into taut hide over packed straw, until even his elven arms ached from the strain. He wanted to pummel some fiendish orc until his flayed knuckles were garish with vilest gore, but this was not to be. 

At the intersection of the east and north wings of the residence, he stopped short. A sight so heartful, so inconceivable stood before him that he nearly cried out for joy, but his tongue was caught by the wily twine of his lips. 

Lathron, his back to him but still looking rather bewildered as to the rightful direction, gazed up at a towering statue of King Elendil. Stifling a snicker, a gleam of such mischief dawned in Legolas’ sapphire eyes that one would have thought him an elfling of mere adolescent years. With the sightless speed of a woodland elf, he ran the rest of the hall in a flash, preparing to pounce upon his unsuspecting brother, until, mid-flight, a solid hand butt the center of his chest, the brute impact of which sent him sliding back across the floor. Winded by this overbold maneuver, and from Lathron who had never before blocked one of his assaults, he gasped for the breath with which to curse him, until he struck upon the rather startling reason for his brother’s primal self-defense. 

His protective arms berthed a babe of no more than a bushel of months, bleary-eyed and bleating. Indeed, his wails were so piercingly acute that Legolas was astonished he had not marked them before. He grabbled to his feet, aided by his brother’s proffered hand, a wry smirk already sharpening Lathron’s sunny features. Yet there was softness enough for a hint of pride, he was soon enveloped by an eloquent embrace. 

“It warms something fierce to see you, lass dithen,” his brother murmured to him. “Though we had nearly instant word of the Shadow’s fall, I have longed quite savagely to know firsthand of your safekeeping.” 

Too stung by feeling to elaborately reply, Legolas veered his attention toward the still simpering bundle. 

“I am well enough, as you can see,” he dismissed, as he drew slowly out of his brother’s arms to accommodate the babe. “But who under the elen is this starlit creature?” 

The child in question was clearly of the pearly Noldor race, with tousled sable hair and eyes fluid as a murky river. 

“This cranky one is Ithildir,” Lathron explained. “Who has, I fear, not quite yet recovered from out arduous journey. He presently pays the price for his restlessness, as he was rather enraptured with the mountainous scenery about, when perhaps he should have been slumbering, hm?” With a sheepish grin, he turned back to implore his little brother. “Tell me, Legolas, do you know your way about?” 

With a rakish chuckle, Legolas lead him back down his own corridor, where the housemaster had, after some classic Silvan imposition, smartly chosen a set of rooms for Lathron and Erestor. Just as the archer was about to query if there was any faint recognition of their surroundings, as he was not entirely sure where exactly the suite was located, an even more astonishing sight exited from a room down the hall. Three blonde elflings, of varying ages, bounced into step, slinging full quivers over their shoulders. Twas not long before they spied him. 

“Uncle Legolas!!” one exclaimed, then unceremoniously bounded towards him. 

The others quickly followed, as Legolas gaped in sundering shock. 

“Thargel!” he stammered in greeting, as they swarmed around him. “Hathol! Daerin! How by the Lady’s grace have you come to Gondor?” 

“Not by the Lady’s grace at all,” Hathol laughed. 

“But by the questionable elegance of our Adar,” Thargel seconded, as he clamped an arm around his uncle and nudged him down the way. 

Legolas could barely glance back in helpless inquisition at Lathron, before they pelted him with a flurry of their own rabid queries. Though each had grown considerably since he had last seen them, none was yet so mature as to spare him their curiosity. 

“Is it true you breached the Black Gate, Uncle Legolas?” Daerin, Losgaren’s firstborn of some forty-seven years, asked. 

“That you slew over a thousand orcs in one battle alone?” Thargel, Lithbrethil’s middle son of some thirty-seven years, inquired after. 

“That you toppled four mumakil in one fail swoop?” Hathol, Lorindol’s fourth son and the youngest, at twenty-nine, among them, finished breathlessly. 

“I am sure your uncle will be only too glad to recount his many tales of errantry,” Lorindol himself opined, emerging from the designated suite. “In the banquet hall, come nighttime. At present, there are a few familiars who are quite anxious to embrace him, and as you have all done so, you best be off to the training ground and leave such an esteemed warrior some manner of the peace he has earned.” 

The elflings nodded obediently, as none dared defy the Crown Prince, then scurried off, already embellishing between them the tales they had not yet been told. 

For himself, Legolas was stunned terribly sober at the brimming eyes of his eldest brother, who gazed at him with a reverence he never thought to dream of. By the cacophony within, the other four princes awaited him, a notion that so incensed him with feeling he nearly lost his soldierly reserve. Yet he could not loose face, not in his moment of glory, and so he strode forth into the room, where silence fell like a heavy curtain over the company of golden elves assembled there. If Lathron and Lorindol had not seized him by the arms and guided him forth, he may not have even been able to stand. Each and every one of his older brothers looked on him with such pride, such tenderness, and such palpable relief at the proof of his survival that he was deeply shaken by their unguarded emotion. Before long, they crushed him into the heart of their circle, holding fast for a long, poignant moment. When each embraced him in turn, Legolas was too worn by their affections to keep proper counsel, though every one of his brothers wept along with him. Only then did Legolas realize that they, unlike he, had not seen Lathron in over two millennia, from which he urged them all back into a cloying, hiccupping horde of embarrassed Silvan warriors. The mysterious babe had been passed to Erestor, who poured out goblets of wine and vainly fought his own streaming tears at the sight of this sudden reunion. 

By the time they settled into the seats gathered by the hearth, all were smiling again, simply content to be together at the dawn of the peaceful age. His brothers thankfully spared him their most itching questions, focusing rather on matters of health and of hardiness, assuring themselves that the festering hordes had not too harshly abused their youngest. He learnt that gangly trio from the corridor were not the only nephews to make the journey south, which accounted for the plethora of horses in the courtyard. Lorindol had brought all four of his sons, some already well past their majority. Lanthir’s two little ones were too tiny yet to travel, but Losgaren had brought his twins, of which Daerin was but one half. Thargel was the only representative from Lithbrethil’s house, but Luinaelin had brought his daughter as a companion to Daerin’s twin, Dariel. Legolas could only imagine how these two majority-skirting maids would fare at the banquets, with an Adar, six uncles, and six more male cousins to secure their honor awhile longer. 

He took care to glance over at Lathron, to whom he had oft spoke of these nephews and nieces of theirs, but who had never met any of these bright ones, nor those left behind. Indeed, he himself had not known that Luinaelin’s mate had been with child upon his departure for the quest. Yet his brother appeared rather glutted with contentment, what with his chatting family about, his husband by his side, and the babe sleeping in the cradle of his arms. When their eyes met across the hearthside gathering, his brother’s message was unmistakable. ‘I pray the heavens,’ it said, ‘that you will one day be so heartened as I, be so blessed by fate and fortune.’ Legolas shut his eyes but a second, sending his own similar hopes up into the Lady’s graces. 

Yet he was not so embroiled in his own inner melodrama as to entirely cast off his mirth. He would not want his brothers to forget too long his own mischief-making repute. 

“Forgive me, Lathron,” he launched over the pack, who quieted to attend him. “In my haste before, I neglected to inquire as to the provenance of that sweetly babe.” 

“Indeed, toren,” Lithbrethil seconded. “It seems you have neglected to tell us all how you came about such a darling one.” 

Lathron smirked, then replied: “Tis no marvel. Ithildir is our son.” 

A hush fell over the assembly, through which Losgaren jested: “Aye, that is well apparent, for you cling to him with the sallow desperation of a new parent begging for the sobs to cease awhile.”

“Just wait until his teeth sprout,” Luinaelin mercurially warned him. “A Nazgul’s shrieks will suddenly seem as dulcet as the cooing of songbirds, compared to his shattering wails.” 

“Though those memories are tempered somewhat by the gleeful shouts of true infancy,” Lorindol fondly recalled. “They are wobbly, but they are terribly precious.” 

Legolas had never seen his eldest brother so soft as in the aura of this long passed memory.

“Please excuse the prince royal his musings,” Lanthir kidded theatrically. “He is rather broody of late.” 

“Tis in sympathy for his mate,” Lithbrethil sighed. “I too feel the strain of distance from my dearly wife, our budding child.” 

“You both have sired anew?” Legolas asked, incredulous. 

“Twas a plot, I tell you, Legolas!” Losgaren groaned in explication. “They ensorcelled us with wilding promises, these mates of ours.” 

“A conspiracy as meticulous as any we have ever constructed,” Luinaelin observed, then shook his head. “With shrewd rhetoric, potent lures, even echoing catch-phrases!” 

“’A child born in peace,’ they said,” Losgaren continued, still evidently burnt by his wife’s sweet deception. “’A generation who will know naught but the Great Green Wood of our youth.’ We were helpless before their charms.” 

“Though the begetting was rather glorious,” Lorindol reminded them, a wistful look on his face. “Amaril and I have not enjoyed such a liberating tumble since…” He halted, blushed, and the others cackled in ribald chorus. 

Lathron, extremely bemused, was looking rather Elrondian, his golden brow quite acutely pointed skywards.

“You mean to suggest,” he chuckled sagely. “That four of you were convinced to sire new babes after the Shadow’s fall by your colluding wives? And you each complied with their schemes?” 

“When said scheme involved my luscious Idreth peeling off the nine veils of blooming innocence,” Lithbrethil shrugged. “There was not much resistance left within this battle-weary elf.” 

With a communal sigh, the four peacetime sires were lost to gauzy memory of their own unique, smoldering night of passion. Legolas had begun to wonder if he had indeed passed into the otherworld, as he had never seen his brothers so lighthearted, so bawdy, so… free. It struck him, then, the fact that he had had a large part in their restoration, that through his efforts they were able to jest and taunt anew. In that swollen moment, he wanted nothing more than to hunt Elrohir down and force him to see reason, to reckon himself with the happiness that could be theirs. 

“Forgive me my impudence, Lathron,” Lanthir inquired as delicately as possible, returning to the question that pressed hotly upon each of their minds. “But how did you and Erestor come to procure yourselves such a sweetling?” 

“Gwanur!” Lorindol chided, to which Lathron held up an appeasing hand. He had no doubt expected the question. 

To Legolas’ surprise, Lathron looked to his mate, who had apparently prepared some sort of discourse for them. 

“Tis a rather bleak tale, I fear,” Erestor prefaced, forewarning them of the gravity of the matter. “You are each doubtlessly aware of the lesser elves who covet too youthful maids from the town of Barrowman’s Close, in the woods between the village and Imladris proper? The Lord has oft had trouble discouraging this practice, much to his great dismay. More than a few children have been begot through such unfortunate means through the years, but most of these were reared among the villagers and chose the fate of men. However, as the Shadow sunk its claw deeper into the heart of our valley, an increased number of our embattled soldiers chose to vent their frustrations in such a grievous manner and a greater clutch of girls sought to ensnare the attentions of powerful elves warriors, who might protect them. Maids from as far as Bree would camp in our woods, soliciting. With our own worries overwhelmed by more perilous issues, there was little our guard could do to contain the problem. These sloppy relations begot an astonishing number of peredhil foundlings, some we have not yet even been able to ferret out.” 

“Most are orphaned,” Lathron continued. “Some are outcast, abused by the fractured, impoverished families in these towns. Rare is the child who is happily placed, with at least one parent to rear them. The lion’s share had their fathers killed in battle, their mother’s slain in an orc attack, or either parent abandoned them outright. Some were even left exposed to the elements, at varying stages of development.” After a pause to quiet his rising anger, he finished off. “Ithildir was one of these.” 

“We have gathered them in the Homely House,” Erestor told them. “We will found a school, so that they might flourish, sheltered by our care. We did not think it too bold to rear one as our own.” 

“Tis rather heartening altogether,” Legolas praised them, warmed by their action. 

“Indeed, if you are willing, Imladris is not the only realm to suffer such fools,” Losgaren informed them. “I have heard such tales from Esgaroth, or along the Old Forest Road… our King would never accept the rearing of peredhil, but if Imladris is willing to raise them, I am certain there are more than a few elflings awaiting some form of salvation.” 

“If they are in dire straights,” Erestor confirmed. “We would be most glad to welcome them.” 

“Glorfindel will aid us in their recovery, for certes,” Lathron considered. “If you wish to coordinate our efforts beforehand, tis best to consult him, as he will provide the guard. We can begin our search of the Mirkwood in the weeks after our return to Rivendell.” As an afterthought, he smiled gratefully at his brother. “My thanks, toren.” 

“Perhaps your own sweetling, then, is the true herald of peacetime,” Legolas remarked, yet slyly pricked his brothers anew. “All your grunting efforts were for naught, gwenin!!” 

A circle of scowling looks bore down upon him, but this sight only brightened him further. Indeed, he truly believed at that moment that he had never seen a more endearing sight in all his long millennia. 

* * *

Twilight descended over the horizon as blithely as the dusky skirts of a scullery maid billowing in the breeze, its inky curtain blanketing the peachy pinks and the rosy magentas of the dulcet summer day. Even atop the peak of Emyn Arnen, where the Citadel’s spire speared out of the rock like the scything tusk of a mumakil and the courtyard promenade jut out as sharply as a mountain lion’s saber-tooth, the evening wind was dulcet as milk-fatted babe, eliciting giddy peals from the wafting banners and rippling flags that adorned the city sprawled below. The streets rang with revving revelry, as the cheered inhabitants feted the marriage of their King. Though the velvety twilight beyond was a fitting tribute to the ethereal beauty of the elven’s people’s Evenstar, as if heralding her gracious dominion over this once troubled land, Minas Tirith itself was lit resplendent, in defiance of any shadow that might yet lurk about the realm of Gondor. Each firecracker shot, each lantern’s glow, each torch’s blaze burned in testament to their liberation, to the benevolent rule of King Elessar. 

This night they claimed the victory for which they had sacrificed so dearly, for which they had given more than could ever be dully repaid by any portended regent or prophetic majesty. 

As he wandered about the abandoned courtyard before the Citadel, its lawn heeled by a legion of worn leather boots and its stone paths webbed with filaments of white ribbon, Elrohir reflected upon the rather personal meaning of the day’s events for himself, for his peredhil family. Even in her crowning moment, his sister’s joy was tempered by the bald truth of her choice; in embracing her beloved, she shunned the Valar’s greatest gift to their kind, the promise of immortality. Yet the surety of her decision had buoyed even their Adar’s spirits, the effluence of her feeling for Estel had bourn them through what was, inevitably, a bittersweet affair. No hint of grief, sorrow, or tragedy had tainted the ceremony, if only due to the resilient sparkle in his sister’s eyes. Forevermore, even the most mournful mood would be cast off by the memory of that pearly gleam, of the beatific countenance of one so impassioned as to brazenly ignore of will of the gods themselves to see her heart fulfilled. Estel’s humility in the face of such an incredible sacrifice had further heartened her family, his effulgent love for his bride as winning as his utter bedazzlement at having earned her regard. The eloquence of their first married kiss had infused all in attendance with a sense of hope, perseverance, and courage to face the future. 

All except Elrohir, who had been swathed in the gauzy cloud of a fugue, from which he had yet to emerge. Not even the diamond shine of Legolas’ eyes, across the altar, had been sharp enough to cut into this numbing cocoon. The elf-knight’s perception had been so shroud that he had but haunted the remainder of the proceedings – blessing, parade, and banquet - his spirit wholly distracted by his internal musings. Yet for all his outward vagueness, his inner eye had seen with crystalline clarity the vast outstretch of his life, the confluent streams of events that lead to his current state of intense confusion as to his purpose, his place. 

He had witnessed anew his carefree, sheltered youth, in which no hint of shadow had ever truly darkened the cozy valley that kept his dear family. Yet he had heard tales of troubles so barbarous, so devastating, that he had vowed himself then and there to their protection. When the heathen hordes had indeed come for them, twas the memory of this gilded youth that had hardened him against even its own resurgence in the Shadow’s wake; he was fortified by battlements so impenetrable that even peace could not convince him to topple them. 

Little hope, then, for the love he’d once known, so hotly that he’d given up his very self to conserve its singular flame. Twas but a pile of cinders within his chest, of the same acrid smoke that fumed over the ash fields of Mordor. 

He saw with wizened eyes that telltale midsummer night when he lost not merely his innocence, but his power over his world. When everything became uncertain, uncontrollable, when events and emotions swept him up with the rage of a wilding river. Though this was, by far, the pearl among the mire of his remembrances, the only wealth it had bequeathed him was a crown of sorrows and the loss of a rare, most precious jewel. For what bounty had their relations brought him, other than five brief years of sanctuary at Imladris over three millennia ago? He thought of a choking winter night, when a pale, ravaged rider bore his waning brother over miles of frosted terrain, of a dull-witted, emaciated archer grappling for every last crumb of bread, before slumping back to sleep. He thought of a cacophony of trumpets sounding in the courtyard below his bedchamber, the officious call of the Mirkwood summoning one of its tormented charges home, to its coarse comforts. He thought of the blackest, most ruinous night of his existence, when he and his brother crept into a cave seething with orcs, only to be assaulted by the vilest abomination his silver eyes had ever come upon. He thought of every excruciating moment of the years after, the slaying, the goring, the relentless savagery, and failed to reconcile that vicious creature with the laurel-minded youth who had set out to shield his family from Shadow. The one that found solace only in the hack and slash of hard combat. The one that was sickened by the very glimpse of his birthplace through the trees. The one that forsook funerary services in favor scraping the grime off his boots, that lead with such ferocity he forgot the lives sworn to him, that raced by carnage and scenery alike if in pursuit of a scrambling foe. 

This wretched one had even brought his brutality to bed with his rare pearl, befouled even their most succoring acts with his crude carnality. To his eternal shame, these visions of lust and lunacy roused him even now; indeed, he writhed in nightly agony, his body shrieking for a jolt, a smack, a grind. This was the darkling beauty Legolas spoke of so praisefully? This was the gallant to which he wished to bind himself eternally? Elrohir still could not reckon how one so keen as his archer could have overlooked his lechery and his bloodlust, let alone comprehend how he was supposed to instantly cast off the crushing weight of his armor and skip merrily about the forest glades, hand in hand with his constant mate. One such as he could not hope for rejuvenation, nor did he deserve the peerless regard of one so valiant, so honorable, so fair. 

Better that he had died. Better that he would die, would follow Elros to a place without such gutting pain as this cruel world served up like the most savory delight. 

Yet he had not fallen. 

Adrift in the dense fog of self-evaluation, Elrohir clung to this fact as if a branch hung beneath a precipice. The Valar could plot no further grief for him - of this he was assured by the fact of having already sunk to the lowest depths of misery - so for what purpose did they keep him? Was Imladris so impossible to order, the stray bands of orcs so unwieldy, his presence so necessary at his sister’s wedding? Though twas hardly his place to interpret the will of the Valar, he could not help but speculate as to their grand design; his purpose, in effect. Yet if he could play at divining his purpose, then by logic he *had* one. He was required by some otherworldly force, charged to some essential mission, needed to fulfill some unfathomable duty only he could sufficiently perform. 

There was only one being in Arda entire whose existence depended rather vitally on his own, as evidenced by a most untimely declaration of love in the days after the war’s end. By the Valar’s will, Legolas survived the great battle of their time. By their design, he was elemental to the continuance of their people. By their unspoken command, Elrohir was deemed necessary to the golden prince’s very existence. If Legolas should fade for love of him, then Arda itself would suffer for his loss. While Elrohir could not force himself to feign love for the Mirkwood prince, nor would he ever behave with deliberate falsehood towards him; if he could mend the rift between them, then he could restore their friendship. He could, in essence, dedicate himself to Legolas’ preservation, to his protection and to his conservation for all time. 

He could not have gleaned on a worthier cause for the final, fleeting years of his life. 

He was thus meandering towards the end of the courtyard pier, where a lithe, blonde figure gazed out over the Pelennor, as if searching for meaning in the smoldering wreck of Mordor. In his palm was cradled a jewel of some significance, which his aqua eyes occasionally grazed over with nothing short of complete exasperation. He would touch it, admire it, then pluck his curious fingers away, as if he held the One Ring itself. His stare would then stretch out anew, over the polished city concealing its cracks and fissures, over the fields fed by the blood of legions, over the crumbling fortress that should have been his tombstone. 

Elrohir wondered anew how all the destruction they had seen, all the fury they had known could be somehow laid to rest in that brimstone graveyard, and their lives rejoined with ardor. What did Legolas perceive in that scorched earth, in those charred battlements that bore such scrutiny? He himself was more likely to dive over the edge, than to examine the skyline for a speck of star. Yet how could he hope to raise Legolas’ spirits, to reinforce the importance of their friendship, when all he saw around him was death, doom, and insurmountable anguish? How could he shackle his golden elf further into their comradeship, when he was not an anchor, but a drowning weight? Though not reasonable solution presented itself to his bogged mind, he nevertheless soldiered on. He was, after all, the wrongly esteemed elf-knight of Imladris. 

Before he could think on how to interrupt the archer’s fraught reflections, Legolas glanced over his shoulder in recognition of his appearance there. He closed his hand over the jewel, laid it over his heart. 

“I had hoped you might seek me out,” Legolas informed him, but did not turn away from the pier. “I longed to speak with you before Gimli and I took our leave, but feared your family obligations would keep you overlong.” 

“Indeed, there was quite a ridiculous amount of fuss,” Elrohir admitted, with a sigh. The constant fretting had been a trial on his notoriously paltry amount of patience for pageantry. “Yet Arwen was prettily pleased by the celebration, so all is well in the House of Elrond. The royals are twitching in the seats as they wait out the dancing, already plotting their means of escape.”

“Did you not dance with your sister?” Legolas asked, finally turning back to face him. 

The archer’s eyes were warm, welcoming in their candor. He saw his caring friend within, exhaled a generous rush of air. 

“Aye, she caught me up,” Elrohir told him. “But I am not one for formal dancing. Too restrictive, on the whole.” 

“You but require a bonfire, if memory serves,” Legolas teased, a smile perking the corners of his lips. 

“Alas, there was but a roaring hearth,” he shrugged, finding his ease. “Hardly suitable.” 

Legolas grinned with characteristic mercury, then motioned for them to sit atop the low alabaster wall that edged the rim of the courtyard pier. The archer maintained a comfortable distance, his blue eyes imbued with a muted form of the incandescence beamed upon him on that declarative night so many moons ago. Heat, heart, and a bold adoration commingled in their aquamarine depths, such that Elrohir could barely stand the balming force of their shine. He suddenly wanted, with an unconscionable fervor, to melt into his embrace, to forget every one of his troubles in the cradle of those overpowering arms. 

“How have you fared these last weeks, gwador?” Legolas inquired softly, though the appellation stuck on his tongue. “I confess, I feared you might do something rash… though if you did, I would only have myself to blame for your impulsiveness, having…” He grew somewhat timid, the only time his gaze quavered to the side. “Having lead you to doubt my loyalty. My devotion. To our friendship.” After a faint growl at his own inability to make himself understood, he pressed on. “I am intensely pained by our estrangement. Even though our paths diverge once again I would that we… that is, I pray that we can be truly reconciled.” 

“That is my wish, as well,” Elrohir impressed upon him, after snatching up his hands. Legolas was so relieved by the gesture that his own clasp nearly snapped the very bones in his fingers. “If this peaceful age holds any promise for me, twill be found in our togetherness, in our amity. I, too, have longed for your companionship these last weeks. I, too, feared… that we might part without…” A sudden, stunning swell of emotion robbed him of the breath to speak. His heart seized in his chest, thumping loudly, adamantly, as it pumped wave after wave of vertiginous feeling through his trembling frame. “*Legolas*…” He swallowed hard, shut his eyes, tears searing the delicate skin behind his lids. He had not expected to be quite so overwhelmed by emotion, not one so renown for his conservative demeanor, for his diplomatic skill. Yet be it the night, the ceremony, or the grave circumstance, he found that he could not keep himself counseled as in lately years, nor remove himself from the sentiment the moment inspired. If ought, he was downright sodden with regret. “Forgive me, my dearest friend, for… I want only to make amends for… I never meant…” He bit his lip down to clamp in its quivering, denied the tears their due emergence with a violent shake of his head. “I know not what the coming age holds, nor how I will weather its shifting climes. I haven’t the faintest notion of my place in this new realm. I know only… that I wish to partake of your fine company as oft as duty allows, and perhaps a few stolen moments besides.” 

“Tis a pact, then,” Legolas assured him, drawing his hands up and kissing the blanched knuckles with explicit tenderness. “To pressures alleviated. To amicable deportment. To friendship renewed.” 

“Aye, to your renewal,” Elrohir swore in turn, the fierce emotions still rumbling within. “Will you go to Mirkwood, after your adventuring in Fangorn? Perhaps you might care to winter in Imladris, afterwards, as in seasons of old?” 

Legolas brightened considerably at this proposal, a concrete expression of the elf-knight’s vow. 

“I cannot think of a more pleasant sojourn than a lush winter in Imladris,” Legolas agreed, then sobered some. “Might I offer another amendment, gwador, to our new compact?” 

“Which is?” Elrohir queried, with far more lightness than he presently felt. 

He was somehow both touched and terrified by what the archer put forth. 

“That I might beg you to forgo the vouching of your choice until after our reunion,” Legolas implored him, with such gravity of manner that Elrohir was taken aback by his quick shift in mood. “That, after some few months to settle back into your home and hearth, you might consider my plea anew, before choosing your fate.” 

With a blustery sigh, Elrohir chafed: “I consider it hourly, Legolas. It clangs about my head like a warning gong, announcing a turn in the onslaught of orcs.” 

“Then a masterly warrior such as you will have no trouble staving off such a climactic decision until we meet again,” Legolas retorted, attempting, but failing at, a playful tone. His desperation was all too plain, and it pierced Elrohir’s already tremulous hold on his reserve. 

The tears, hot and salty, spilled down his sallow cheeks. 

“I will await you,” he whispered, as those long-craved arms finally enveloped him. 

* * * 

The Foothills of the Mountains of Mirkwood, Three Months Later

A dank drizzle dissipated the cloying mist, strewn through the black, fetid trunks of the Mirkwood like a moldering swath of cotton. The sulfurous stench of a forest purging its centuries of sickness hung about the frigid air of early autumn, the seeping trees wretched, their boughs trimmed with filaments of webbing, their leaves crisp, decrepit, their sap-spouts oozing with bile. In defense against the clutches of orcs still nesting in its hollows, the Mirkwood had gone venomous, as if to poison out the very scum that had first tainted its lush vales. The spring, the elven gardeners predicted, would wash away the last vestiges of Shadow, but before the cycle of natural replenishment could be complete, the woods would prove deadlier than ever before, preying in their own organic fashion after beast and burden alike. 

While the tortures and suffrage of war had hardied the wood-elves against such feral climes, the mannish towns were the hardest hit by the forest’s desiccation; their paltry yield of crops withered upon harvest, their rivers murky with soot from Dol Guldur, their horses enfeebled by constant fatigue. Where the Mirkwood guard had once patrolled the village outskirts in order to secure them, they now sought out the vilest form of thieves, brigands, and mercenaries, intent on the foulest form of mischief. Even the roughshod Sinda elves were stunned by the acts of cruelty and vandalism they so oft interrupted, though not always swiftly enough to prevent a tragic outcome. Indeed, twas quite a boon to the five remaining Princes of Mirkwood that the forest would cleanse itself, since their days were spent doling out discipline to the mortal minions of Saruman that they managed to capture, if not entirely preoccupied by the banishing of some blackguard company. 

The summons east had come only days after the Lord’s return to Imladris, though the writ itself had been awaiting him for some weeks. The Mirkwood guard had recovered over a dozen foundlings from their weekly patrols, whether abandoned outright, given up by an ailing parent, or wrenched from the arms of a child-bandit, who sold the peredhil babes to slave camps in the north. Thranduil’s cave dwelling was hardly equipped to rear such sallow-cheeked infants, nor were the Sindar particularly keen to raise a bunch of half-breeds, so Lanthir, as Captain of the Guard, had called upon the service of those he knew would be only too glad to succor these weakling innocents. Glorfindel had dispatched a company post haste, with himself in the lead, and seconded by the renown brethren princes. They had currently overtaken an inn just off the Old Forest Road, where three goodly matrons had been tending to the weepy elflings the guard had already found. Only the most compassionate Imladrian warriors had been selected for the mission, each devout fathers in their own right, as well as the most accomplished fighters the valley possessed. The road back to Rivendell would be painstakingly slow and the comfort of the infants of supreme necessity, so Glorfindel had chosen with explicit care. Having scoured the gloomy woods for any remaining charges, the company was set to depart on the maudlin morrow, their litters brimming with mewling babes and their packs near bursting with skins of honeyed milk. 

As the other soldiers sought out what little rest might remain them before dawn, a lone rider had been so restless on his roll before the hearth, that he trolled through the outskirts of the town without aid or companion, seeking a meet with some vile menace. Sleep had more than eluded the gallant elf-knight, it had absconded entirely from his antsy system, as if spooked by some ghostly premonition. Indeed, each time he had dared shut his eyes, an otherworldly shriek had so rattled his faint reverie that he had been yanked back into full, glaring consciousness, not even the dulcet flicker of the flames enough to temper his jangly nerves. Twas as if he was beckoned into the dark woods by some phantom specter, through the guards stationed around the inn had heard not a rustle from the stagnant woods about. Yet every time he settled back into a hesitant drowse, the ghostly, discordant call would begin again, until he could do naught but prep his steed, gather some stores, and ride out into the festering blackness, to face perils unknown. 

Once he had been lost to the rhythm of Virgor’s clopping trot, the haunting song had struck up anew, as if drawing him towards some needful party. He found that the woozier he allowed himself to become, the most distinct sharp, grating cries grew, until it seemed they had possessed Virgor himself. They had cantered through the village, past the farms on the northern plateau, into the bush and bracken of the foothills, where only the most impoverished, oft outcast members of the town resided. 

Here, the steely cast of the scythe moon tinged the peaks of the spiky, looming mountains. The wanton howls of wolf packs swooped down on the whipping wind, the sparse thatches of trees seething with shroud predators. Leagues and yards would pass by without the merest sight of a pond, a cottage, or a barn; not a lantern’s shine pierced the fathomless reams of night’s cowl. 

As Virgor vaulted into what was once a river basin, Elrohir was roused from his trance-like stupor. Though not a cricket chirped about the brush, the silence in itself was a deafening roar; the creeping calm before a riotous attack. His quicksilver eyes surveyed the barren terrain for any hint of trouble, then suddenly remarked, in the crook of a cave’s fanged mouth, a cabin of such necrotic squalor it appeared to be made of pustule-laden moss. Strangles of rout-out roots were spattered about the base, streaks of coal from chimney spout grayed the roof shingles, and bucket shards were piled before the parched, rickety well. From behind the densely glassed windows flared a hellish red, the embers of the hearth dangerously dim on such a cold, rainy night. The bedraggled residents were no doubt clumped before the dismal flames, he could offer them naught but his sympathy, so chose not to disturb them. 

Yet when he veered Virgor southwards, a bleat so timorous, so desolate caught his ear that he instantly turned back again. 

Hastily fastening his patient steed to the trunk of the lone, excoriate oak, he moved over the land with expert stealth, searching for any sign of life, of distress. He stole about the yard, the well, the outskirts of the cave, when he spied the remnants of a wood fence on the far side of the cabin, near the woodpile. Twas then that he came upon a sight so repulsive to his sense of decency, so depraved in its undertaking, so damning of the poorly residents that he nearly sliced his sword out of its lank sheath and barged in to slay them all. Another sounding of the meager bleat stayed his ire; he raced over to the rotted wood cage built from the fence planks. 

An elfling of barely a pair of years sat within, slumped against the rails of his prison, as there was not space enough to lie prone. A soiled nap was twisted around his waist, he wore a filthy, threadbare shift, its frayed edge barely skirting his bruised thighs. He wept softly, obediently, as if fearful of the torments his own tears would bring upon him; though by all devastating appearance there would be none who would come for him again, save the wolves his captors doubtlessly hoped to attract by the blood-crusted scores of knife slits up his arms. A listless, purpled leg was shackled to a fence post beyond his cage, as if one so emaciated and abused as he could possibly break free from his confinement. He shook such in the cold that Elrohir feared his spine might snap, his skin tinged blue where not braised raw by the rough wind. A more miserable creature the elf-knight had never seen. 

With one terror-stricken, yet imploring look of those crystal blue eyes, the child entrenched himself in the most pure, profound, and tender depths of his heart. 

Yet the elfling’s cowed spirit was not entirely broken. When Elrohir reached slowly, carefully through the planks, his twittering sobs quieted, his tears ebbed off. He clung to the discipline that had been beat into his very soul, like a blacksmith at the forge, waiting out his end with a solemn stare. He would not grieve for himself, he would not show fear to a stranger. While neither could he defend himself, he would go with dignity. Elrohir did not doubt that, if the wolves had first discovered him, he would have behaved with similar aplomb, even before their dripping teeth and their rabid growls. He had known wolves enough in his short lifetime not to be outdone by a hounding pack of animals. Elrohir thought he himself might weep at this ennobled show of strength, but knew well enough that no good would come of his sorrow. 

This little one must be saved. If he could not resuscitate the waning soul of this sweetling, then there was no hope for any in this new age of supposed peace. 

Drawing on the few, brief lessons in tree wooing Legolas had taught him, Elrohir mimicked the tippling melody of their lightest summer song. The elfling gasped, eyes wide as saucers of cream. Elrohir continued to lilt as best he could, while reaching in to pet his jagged-cut, tousled crown of golden hair. Before long, he was stroking the gentlest of fingers down a pallid cheek, whilst cooing the simplest of assurances to the child, who was so overwhelmed by a relief he barely understood he felt that his sobs came in fierce, guttural shudders. By the time Elrohir had snapped open his cage, eased off the loose shackle, and gathered the tiny, quaking body in his arms, the elfling had lost all sense of self-protection, gripping to his rescuer as best he could in his weakened state and snuffing the most pitiful wails imaginable into the elf-knight’s neck. Elrohir had not even heard such cries on the fields of Pellanor nor the plains of the Morannon, as if the child had never known a second’s love in all his fraught existence, all the more heartrending from one so innocent, so impressionable. A rage of incendiary fervor blazed within him at those who were so base as to mistreat this precious pearl, such that he nearly tucked the infant into his tunic so he might bear witness to the disemboweling of his tormentors, so primally did the elfling’s plight affect him. 

Yet when a lonely howl broke over the nearby crags, he knew they could not linger long. 

The little one, now drained of sorrow, was squirming in his arms. By the shivers that ripped through his frail frame, Elrohir intuited his desperate need of warmth. As he bore him over to waiting Virgor, he folded him tightly into the front of his tunic, so that only the barest sprig of gossamer hair spilled from his collar. Betraying a survivalist’s instinct, the elfling snuggled in without a whimper of protest, soon gurgling softly to sound out his emphatic approval of the cozy berth. Elrohir kicked his steed into a swift gallop; the sooner his charge could be bathed, balmed, and his injured leg bound, the better for his fitful temper. When his bundle sagged into its wrap, he knew the child had been lulled into a heavy, healing slumber, the sweet snortles of which breezed across his shoulder. 

He hugged the dearly one to him, then vowed both an eternity’s vigilance, and a merciless avenging on the morrow.

* * *

Imladris, Year 1, Fourth Age

His first glimpse of peacetime Imladris, nestled on the verdant ridge of an imposing, snow-capped peak, brought his eyes to brimming. The sloping, slate-blue roofs that blended so perfectly into the mountain side, the mellifluous spill of the cascade by the northern pass, the winding trails that led to courtyards, orchards, training fields, and woodland walks, each aspect promoting comfort and haleness in this paradise of elves design. One came to Imladris, in these weary times of their land’s gradual yet tumultuous renewal, for spiritual restoration; twas just such thorough replenishment he sought there. 

As he edged along the twisty, cliffside road on the opposing side of the lush Rivendell valley, Legolas felt a wilding surge of hope rush through him at the thought of all that could await him there, of all the memories embedded in the forest grounds. In his time at the Last Homely House, he had found an imperative refuge from the strictures of his upbringing, in the brash form of its peerless elf-knight. Though the residence and its Lord had been there to shelter and to nurture him from his earliest years, through the tragic banishment of his brother, to the call of his portended quest, twas the younger Prince of Imladris who proved the most affecting consolation to him, whether in friendship, in lust, or in unrequited love. 

Yet upon this springtime return to Rivendell, he wondered, beyond reason, right, or earnest knowledge, if the love he so graciously bore Elrohir would still be so foolishly unrequited. Though not a year had passed since their parting at Rohan, Legolas anticipated some great changes in his friend’s worldview. In their last conversation on the pier of the Citadel, Elrohir had revealed more emotion than he had evinced since his naneth sailed, nearly overtaken by his sorrow, by his shame. This outward grieving could only herald, in the archer’s expectant mind, a time of acute affliction, in which his elf-knight could no longer hide behind stoicism, reservation, diplomatic repression. Once returned to his home, to this valley-berthed sanctuary, Elrohir would have had no choice but to succumb to its remedial qualities, as so many haggard travelers had for ample millennia. Imladris was more than a place, an oasis amidst the Shadow-scorched lands, it was a feeling, a state, a consciousness none so bereft as his beloved could long resist. Indeed, the elf-knight was once ruled by its very dulcet rhythms; he had only to let himself recall the rich melody of his homeland. 

Amidst the scintillating majesty of the glittering caves, the Prince of Mirkwood had had a premonition. Within a decade’s time, his elf-knight would be his. Though he had no cause to give a moment’s credence to such a subjective imagining, he, as a wood-elf, was designed to defy logic in favor of allegiance to the sway of the natural world. If the bedazzling rocks believed that he would, with patience, with compassion, win Elrohir’s reluctant heart one day, then who was he to deny such a primordial force? Who was he to give in to his uncertainties, his grating doubts and his nervy fears, when the elements conspired to encourage him in this, his most valorous of all appointed quests? 

He had ruminated upon this very point throughout the harsh winter he had spent in Mirkwood, even willing to hear his brothers’ myriad counsels on the matter. Though he had promised Elrohir he would hibernate at Imladris, the situation in the forest about his home had been too dire to ignore in favor of such a treat, which Elrond and his advisors knew only too well, by the reinforcements they sent on. Indeed, he had missed the mission to retrieve the many peredhil foundlings by only a week, much to his own dismay. His brothers had found both of the brethren sober, concerned, yet hotly committed to their task; their fervor had impressed them. While no courier could be spared to communicate with Elrohir directly, he had added his regards to one of Lorindol’s official writs, which surely Erestor had passed on to his friend. Lathron had later send word of the foundlings’ wellness, in which he had detailed the rather endearing aid the brethren had given them. Overall, the sentiment Legolas had received from Rivendell had been one of fortification, solidarity, and ease, precisely the tenor of charge that would see to the mending of Elrohir’s frayed spirit. 

His own was rather bursting with eagerness, to be reunited with his friend, to spend an indulgent month or so in the splendorous valley, to embark on the most daunting challenge of his life thus far, the founding of a colony in Ithilien. He was nominally no longer a Prince of Mirkwood, his Adar-King having rather regretfully withdrawn the title before announcing Legolas’ ambitions before the court. To his shock, his Adar had approved the venture, even allowing two of his brothers to uproot their families and join the ranks of the hardy pilgrims that would follow him there. Lithbrethil had ever been of too gentle a character to live comfortably in Thranduil’s fold, while Luinaelin simply longed for the adventure. As both were dear to Legolas, he was only too glad to have some family about, as well as quite tickled to have them as his advisors. Upon his return to Gondor, the King would officially decree his stewardship and divide his lands from Faramir’s lot. Though Legolas knew well that this would induce yet another lengthy separation from Elrohir, he was confident enough in their compacted vow of friendship to risk it, as the entire purpose for the venture was to build them a home all their own. Once Elrohir partook in the grandeur of his vision, he would have no choice but to embrace the certainty of their togetherness, to open his heart to the archer’s love. 

Yet this looming separation drove him forth, up the winding path to the main gate, as he could waste even a moment in admiration of cozy Imladris, when he could be strolling with his elf-knight. 

His snowy steed dropped him at the very foot of those familiar steps, as an elated Lathron hopped down them to greet him. The heartful squeeze of those fond arms around him only further stoked his fiery need to see Elrohir, though some manner of his craving for affection was appeased by his brother’s care. After the ritual pleasantries were exchanged, as well as a few strict confidences in rumors from their woodland realm, Lathron slapped him on the back and struck keenly at his intentions. 

“Come,” he remarked with a sly smirk, as he lead him into the halls of the Homely House. “I will take you to him.” 

“Does he await me, then?” Legolas queried, thrilled by the thought of Elrohir riled by expectation, pacing the floor of the Hall of Fire as he had done on so many memorable occasions.

“Nay, he knows naught of your arrival,” Lathron told him, growing rather mysterious in tone. “I thought it best that you should… observe him, awhile, before your reunion.” 

“Observe him?” Legolas started, somewhat disturbed by this strange comment. 

Yet further elaboration could not, for all his nagging efforts, be sincerely pried out of him. As they strode through the winding corridors towards the southern terrace, which looked out across the lawn, Lathron asked after various friends and family, his conversation chaste as a maid on the eve of her first majority. Only the rambunctious squeals of elflings interrupted his pious inquisition, as a gaggle of older infants raced out onto the green, a bemused Glorfindel trailing behind. Erestor was already watching over a clutch of wobbly toddlers from the shade of a stately elm, who were equally delighted and distressed by the appearance of the older, more raucous and thus more able, infants. The two guardians chatted amiably as their charges resolved their differences, some younger children daring to mix with the older group, some older eflings clearly relishing the chance to boss the younglings, and some clutches keeping resolutely among their peers. 

Twas only then that he spied the very peredhel he sought, reclining across a satiny blanket near the chrysanthemum beds, scrolls splayed liberally around him. His ebony head bent to the task, he intently perused some officious document, scrawling notes in the margins. As soon as he caught himself inwardly remarking how typical it was of Elrohir to immerse himself in the beauty of nature only to heed the call of his diplomatic duties, he seized upon a slight aberration in this rote theory of his. By the far edge of the russet blanket, a slight, blonde elfling was crouched, rapt on a sparrow perched in a nearby bush. The child whistled quite sweetly, attempting to speak to the bird in an awkward interpretation of its language, seemingly ignorant to his peers frolicking about behind him. Two traits were immediately apparent to Legolas, who was admittedly intrigued by this charming cherub; first, that he was a wood-elf to his very core, and second, that he was plagued by a rather timid nature. 

Both only served to further enchant the woodland prince. 

Not quite as enchanted by the little one’s sputterings, the sparrow soon flew off. With a desolate huff, the elfling traced its progress through the pristine sky, which led his sightline to alight on Elrohir. When he toddled over to beckon the elder’s attentions, Legolas could not help but gasp in disbelief. The child was lame. Though he moved with speed and elegance, he clearly favored his right leg, the left dragging significantly behind. Little wonder the sweetling preferred his own company, he could hardly be expected to keep up with his gambling peers. All the children about, the solitary elfling included, were far too green in years to appreciate his plight, which was, in its own right, rather heartbreaking. Legolas instantly vowed to befriend him, to teach him birdspeech and to sing to the trees, so that he might have some solace, some unique quality that might endear him to the others. 

Yet, by the suddenly all too glaring circumstances, the elfling was hardly alone in the great, cruel world. He collapsed rather melodramatically onto the blanket beside Elrohir, then cushioned his head on the darkling elf’s thigh. Though his argent eyes never left the page, the elf-knight’s nimble fingers skittered down the child’s middle, pinching and tickling his sides. The sweetling trilled ebulliently at this play, goading his guardian on to further mischief even as he wriggled defiantly about. His giggles, once drawn out, were torturously infectious; indeed, Elrohir soon abandoned his scroll altogether, as twas impossible to concentrate on government when there was such a sprite to entertain. 

Fiendishly eager to join in their fun, Legolas was about to vault over the rail onto the lawn, when Lathron caught his arm. His brother’s look was cautious, but hopeful, silently requesting some appraisal of the scene before them. 

“Elbereth, but he is sweetly!” Legolas exclaimed. “Retrieved from Mirkwood, I presume.” 

“He was indeed,” Lathron explained. “So you must approach with care. Eilian is… a special child.” 

Frowning at his darkened tone, Legolas inquired: “How so?” 

“He is peredhel,” Lathron elaborated. “Raised from birth in the direst of circumstances, among men who abused him so violently as to barely be believed of any of the grander races. He does not take well to newcomers, especially those with traits that remind of him of that wretched place, such as men, such as the Sinda elves who failed to save him from his tormentors. Once properly introduced, I am sure he will take well to you, toren; but should you startle him, he will never allow himself to acclimate to your presence.” With a long sigh, his brother underlined his comments with palpable reluctance. “Especially if… you are to launch yourself at his Adar.” 

Legolas could naught but gape, astounded into momentary speechlessness. 

“H-his… *Adar*?” he stammered, but could not rally his tongue to form a complete sentence. 

“Aye,” Lathron nodded, with a pained, expectant smile. “Eilian is Elrohir’s son, Legolas. He rescued him from his captors, and has reared him as his own.” 

After a flurry of frazzled blinks, Legolas exhaled slowly. He swallowed dryly, then cast his eyes back out onto the lawn, where, much to the elfling’s utter jubilance, his father had stood to swing him about. Elrohir’s regal features were no less that wholly enraptured, liberated from early severity by the sheer bliss of the moment. In his most roving imaginings, Legolas could not have guessed that such a simple joy would have lured his elf-knight out of his depression, would have forced him to embrace life anew. 

He wondered, with encroaching sadness, whether there was a place for him in that rediscovered life, in the family circle he had found himself. 

 

End of Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Seven

“Legolas!!”

The joyful shout pierced through his fugue of fraught consideration, into his musing mind as fleet as an arrow he himself had shot. Mithril eyes shimmering with unbridled elation met cute with his own, the smile that lit Elrohir’s fair, starry features as breathtaking as it was meaningful. Legolas had not seen his friend so cheery, so weightless since their elflinghood. Though the elf-knight was radiant at the sight of him, his innate luminosity did not stem entirely from the archer’s advent, but from the clutch of the golden child in his arms. He was at once thrilled to see his great friend, yet also quite obviously aflame with pride at being able to present his son to him, such that Legolas was instantly sobered. 

The import of the moment colossally impressed upon him; to display even a hint of displeasure at the fact of this child’s permanence in Elrohir’s life would be to err so grandiosely that the chance at love may be lost forever to him. No matter how conflicted he felt within by this sudden, startling revelation, Legolas chose to defer any reflection to a later, more private time and to welcome this development with exultation. Luckily, enchantment with the elfling would be hard to feign, so he was fortunate to be rather completely entranced by his sweetness and his vulnerability. 

After securing Eilian in tight, protective arms, Elrohir came up the steps to greet him, conscious of prying eyes even in his state of tippling merriment. As Lathron had predicted, the youngling burrowed quite intently into his father’s embrace, as hawkish blue eyes surveyed the intruder from behind a mostly shielded face. Elrohir paid his misgivings little mind, that rapturous smile still beamed at Legolas alone. The archer could not help but essay a wry, approving grin of his own, though had to settle for the warrior’s clasp as a welcome, since they could hardly encase the child in one of their fierce hugs. 

“I prayed the spring would see you come hither,” Elrohir remarked, daring to stroke a caress down his cheek. 

Nearly incensed by the affection implicit in the gesture, Legolas caught his hand and kissed the lissome fingers. That eagle eye did not miss a beat of their dance, such that the archer began to wonder if the intent had been entirely affectionate, after all. Regardless, his face softened when he gazed upon the skittish elfling, who visibly trembled in his father’s arms. Neither his timidity, nor his fear, could be mistaken for ought than utter authenticity. Legolas cursed such ones that could be so cruel to a helpless babe. 

“You know well I could not keep away,” he warmly replied, no deliberation needed in his feeling for his elf-knight. “Not with the valley’s splendors to tempt my return. Not with the sweet promise of its people to beckon me home.” 

To his absolute delight, Elrohir blushed. 

Twas then that Legolas began to cultivate a considerable measure of gratitude for the child. Eilian, however, was still all but fused to his father, shaking like a leaf in a gale. After a few pets and coos, Elrohir managed to assuage him some; Legolas kept up his constant, sunny smile. 

“Do not be frightened, ioneth,” Elrohir soothed him. “Do you not recall the tales I have lately spun of my warrior friend, Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood? Tis he in the flesh, come to visit us.” 

“Elf?” was all the sweetling could squeak, though both teeming eyes were now rapt upon him. 

“Aye, Legolas is an elf,” Elrohir reassured him. “He is a great champion, the finest archer in Arda entire.” 

Elrohir inched towards him, then reached up to tuck a length of his golden hair back, revealing his pointed ear. Any effect this revelation had upon the child was utterly lost on him, however, as the elf-knight’s fingertips slinked along the delicate slope of his ear so sensuously, the flirtatious intent could not rightly be misapprehended. Legolas struggled to stifle a purr of contentment, to refrain from luxuriating in his beloved’s tender touch. Fortunately, the proffered ear seemed to appease the elfling, who straightened up to better consider him. 

“My, but he is precious, Elrohir,” Legolas complimented, to his friend’s instant, and evident, relief. 

“I have so longed for your acquaintance,” Elrohir admitted, not shying away from a more heartful embrace now that Eilian was appeased. “Come, let us settle indoors. You must be weary from your long ride. I’ll brew some tea, and we can speak of our too-long months apart.” 

He boldly wove his free arm around Legolas’ waist, then led the still reeling archer inside the Homely House. 

*

As they settled before the hearth of Elrohir’s extended suite of rooms early that evening, Legolas’ wonderment had not much abated. Having misapprehended the swiftness with which the archer had sought him out upon his arrival, the elf-knight had not entirely understood, at their reunion, that Legolas had not had any rest after his long ride. Though Legolas himself felt only too eager to launch into whatever intent conversation might embroil them soonest, Elrohir was too gracious a host, even to his life-long friend, and too politick a diplomat to so impolitely refuse him a chance to relax, to bathe, and to change into a more comfortable tunic. 

The Prince of Mirkwood was only too glad of some replenishment after taking a gander at his appearance in a violet shard of one of the many stained-glass windows of the Homely House guest residence. Though no warrior of valor could honestly be considered vain, neither was Legolas so naïve a suitor as to be ignorant to his own comeliness, as well as its effect on a certain elf-knight. His looks may not be the most incisive weapon in his arsenal, but when the prize was eternity, every advantage must be fully deployed. Wearied, his golden charms would rouse naught but his friend’s succoring instincts. No matter how the ride might have envigorated him, Elrohir, in his own protective, doting, and mildly overbearing way, would perceive even the slightest intake of breath as a symptom of his fatigue. If he sought to woo, rather than worry, then he had best forgo the pleasure of his friend’s company for but another few hours. 

Twas thus that he found himself nestled in a rather luxurious armchair by the fireside of Elrohir’s den, sipping a hefty mug of woodsy-scented tea both to whet his palate and to tide him over until the evening meal. Unless more formal guests needed be attended, the elders of Imladris routinely delayed their meal until all the elflings were abed; despite a gnawing hunger, Legolas counted himself too blessed by the fond company he would later dine with to insist upon being served earlier. Indeed, as the peachy dusk beyond the stately windows burnished the entire den in rich amber tones, he could not recall being so cozily content since long before his mother’s death. The peaceful feeling was only enhanced by the presence of Elrohir, reclined in his own plumped chair, which was thankfully well within reach. Eilian sat in the groove of an enormous pillow between them, before a tray piled so high with culinary delights that Legolas had initially thought the treats were for them all to snack on. 

Indeed, he was currently rather agog at the efficiency with which Eilian consumed his meal. The elfling’s poise was astonishing; he could easily compete with the finest ladies of the Gondorian court in the practice of etiquette. Though for all his surprising finesse with his utensils, his appetite was insatiable. At present, he had already consumed his entire bowl of vegetable stew, two toasted lembas wafers, a plate of greens, and three glasses of juice. Elrohir was slicing up an apple to accompany his sugarcakes, with a half-pint carafe of hot, honeyed milk to wash down his dessert. Once each glass had been drained, he would courteously wait to interrupt his Adar’s discussion, then timidly push the cup towards him, with a whispered “Saes,” to request a refill. Legolas was as impressed by the parenting skills that had reared a child of such refined sensibilities as he was by the one who wielded them, though verily it should come as no great shock to him that Elrohir was such an accomplished father, as he himself had always benefited mightily from his priceless giving and his thoughtful care. 

With this unique opportunity to observe Elrohir’s indulgence of another, Legolas found himself even more enamored with his gallant elf-knight. Though not even a year had passed since their parting, his darkling friend was entirely transformed by this new venture in his life, if not, somehow, impossibly, more comely than ever before. Gone was the pallor induced by wrecking anxiety, the slimness caused by borderline starvation, and the tiredness that hung about every step. Instead, a lush, ebony beauty reigned over his starlit features, so luring that Legolas’ more reasonable senses had to warn him awake from his occasional entrancement. Most importantly, Elrohir’s pearly skin was lit from within by an intense luminosity, a sure indication of the rejuvenation of his soul flame. While he had perhaps not yet made his choice, his elven spirit was thriving; the ethereal force imbued every aspect of his broad peredhil body with its replenishing heat. 

Twould demand a Herculean effort on his part to resist such an enrapturing temptation as the one his elf-knight posed, but he was strengthened by the worthiness of his love and he was resolved to tread the nobler path to their togetherness. At Minas Tirith, Elrohir had expressed his desire that they no longer allow the blighting thrall of their bodies to blind their senses to the pure feeling between them; that if their future is to be soldered unbreakably together, then their bond must be forged in friendship, in heart, in a chaste courtship. Though every glance at his darkling love made his blood quicken its course, he would heed his words with stricture and discipline. No lusting would cost him his eternity. Yet despite the rather tragic need for reservation, Legolas had never felt so swollen with love for him, so adoring of the one he would have as his mate. 

All too conscious of the unadvisable troths and the hotheaded declarations singeing the base of his tongue, burning to be spoke aloud, he nevertheless demurred, veering his conversation towards more neutral ground. 

“By the stars, I have never seen an elfling so famished,” he drolly remarked, beaming fond eyes upon unsuspecting Eilian, who had tuned out of the elders’ chatter the instant his meal appeared. “In my Mirkwood youth, such a store of food would have lasted us three days!” 

Elrohir chuckled, but his silver eyes lost some of their luster. 

“Tis more than I fear my sweet one saw in a fortnight, in his earliest year,” the elf-knight informed him. “From what I gleaned from the spotty maidservant that coddled him, his master was loathe to share his yield, such as it was, with a creature he had despised since his very conception. He blamed the babe for ruining his daughter, the wanton thing that she was to have allowed herself to get with child in such dire circumstances… though the elf-warrior that inseminated her is no less to blame.” 

“Yet their misfortune is your cause for rejoicing,” Legolas countered. 

“I know it well,” Elrohir insisted. “Though how I wish the Valar would have led me soonest to that wretched cave! Twill take decades to fully remedy the spiteful abuses they inflicted on my poorly one. Indeed, he may never entirely vet himself of some ills, some black memories…” 

“His leg?” Legolas cautiously inquired. 

“Nay, Ada says that will heal as he grows,” Elrohir explained. “Tis more like his distrust of men, his shyness, and his solitary tendencies that cause me concern. Though I am impatient, as well, since it has not been more than a handful of months since he left that despicable man’s influence. Twill require more than a short time of stability to restore his confidence.” The darkling elf bent instinctively to pour his elfling another cup of milk, during which their eyes met conspiratorially. The trust bond was fierce between them; Legolas had no doubt that the rest would come, with time. “Erestor has advised me to expend my main efforts towards the development of his speech skills, which are woefully poor. He has barely the essentials of Westron, and little elvish. He understands my questions and instructions well enough, but struggles mightily to reply. I can sense that he knows what he wishes to convey, he simply does not know how to phrase his request, which frustrates him mightily. It causes him to withdraw, at times, so I must take care to ask simple, direct questions.” 

“Such as,” Legolas smirked, catching the child’s attention by bending forward. “Eilian, do you like to swim in the river?” The elfling nodded his head vigorously, though still somewhat reserved in manner towards this strange friend of his father’s. “Ah, then, perhaps we may go there together, in the weeks to come.” The little one’s assent was more tentative this time, glancing at Elrohir for approval before giving his own consent. 

He covered a quick yawn with his tiny hand, then reached towards his Adar. Elrohir gladly scooped him up, setting him on his lap so that he faced Legolas, but could lay back against his firm chest. He laced a protective hold around him, which, at the elfling’s behest, he cinched even tighter. The archer’s heart clenched at the sight, at the entwinement the child still required in order to feel himself secure. The full impact of his master’s black influence struck him, then, and he felt compelled to know what had become of such a fiend. 

“Tell me the end of it, gwador,” Legolas urged his friend onward. “You had not yet completed your tale. What happened when you returned to the inn?” 

With a glance down at Eilian, to ensure himself of the drowsiness descending upon his son, Elrohir took up his aborted tale. 

“As the little one had slipped into a heavy, restoring sleep,” he elaborated. “We set about bathing him, balming his wounds, and we reset his leg. He was virtually emaciated from his weeks of starvation and so malnourished we could not rightly feed him. At first, we gave him only spoonfuls of porridge and a few sips of milk, lest his stomach revolt. We fretted constantly through the first few days, as again and again he turned towards the worst. The wear of the road distressed him, as did his sudden realization of his new circumstances; he only seemed to find solace in my arms. I held him the entire ride back to Imladris, and indeed the road tried him such that he fell comatose but an hour before our arrival at the Homely House.” Elrohir’s regal featured blanched at the memory, as he again tightened his hold on his child. “Needless to say, I was bereft at the thought of this sweetly one’s passing. Ada immediately examined him; he was not impressed with his chances. For endless days and nights after, I lay with him, coddled him, begged him to return to us. When he did wake enough to feed, I weaned him. By day, I strolled around the valley with his limp body cradled in my arms, telling him of the beauty of Imladris, his new home if he so wished it. By night, I rocked him before the fire, swearing my life to his care. Finally, after seven days of listlessness, he roused in earnest, still distressed at times but mostly eager to explore this new realm about him. Twas then that Ada remarked… He said I could not have given more to a son of my ilk, and surely I must raise Eilian as my own. I could not rightly counter him, as I knew then that this was to be my charge in this peaceful age.” 

“But what of his master?” Legolas asked, desperately curious. “How did you learn of his origins? What became of his tormentor?” 

Elrohir allowed himself a smirk of pride, both at his own accomplishments in this regard and at Legolas’ typical, warrior’s response. 

“Before our departure,” Elrohir told him. “Indeed, before my return to the cave, I inquired about the cabin’s residents in the man’s village. A midwife lead me to a farm on the outskirts of town, where the maidservant who occasionally visited the cabin worked. She recounted the tale of the man’s daughter, her wilding ways, her death in childbirth, and how she came to be employed to care for the babe. Indeed, when she currently returned it was of her own volition, since the man was a drunkard and was known to abuse the child. He scorned him as a half-breed, beat him into submission at the most tender of ages. She said that she doubted he would care if the child went missing, as was apparent enough by the cage he was lately kept in. She had no decent reply to my demand that the authorities be informed of such revolting behavior; I hastened to summon them myself.” At Legolas’ start, he smiled outright. “You thought I had slain the man?”

Sheepish, the archer colored some. “If I believed so, gwador, twas only because I would myself have acted thusly. I do not know if I would have been so honorable as to spare him.” 

“To kill him outright would have been a pittance of mercy,” Elrohir sighed. “As twas, I turned him over to your brothers. I have since been assured, through their correspondence, that he begged mightily for forgiveness before his rather anguished end. It shames me to say I was glad of it.” 

“The shame was in his injurious actions,” Legolas assured him. “Even the child’s sire is tarnished by your peerless righteousness, in choosing to rear this lonely one.” 

“Yet he is lonely no longer,” Elrohir beamed, plucking a kiss from his son’s flaxen crown. 

Eilian smiled happily at them both, his belly fatted by his considerable supper and his spirit warmed by the soft feeling he intuited between the two elves. 

Legolas, too, was basking in the heartfelt moment, only to be in greater proximity to his elf-knight would have improved it. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a gratitude, by goodwill towards this darling child, who through his misery may very well have ensured his adopted father’s continuance into eternity, thus allowing Legolas more time to win him. Verily, the child was a godsend. He himself desired to know him better, to gift him any wisdom he might bear, to help guide him through all the ages of his life and to educe naught but the mercurial characteristics of his kind from him. He should, after all, draw some benefits from his Silvan heritage. 

A sudden enlightenment bolted through the golden elf, which caused him to spring out of his seat. Elrohir raised an Elrondian brow in bemused observance, could not stifle a laugh as the archer rifled through his pack. 

“Legolas?” he queried, his voice tippling with mirth. “What by Elbereth has come over you? Have you been spelled?” 

“A wonder I did not think on it before,” Legolas muttered in enigmatic reply. 

“Fear not, ioneth,” Elrohir murmured to Eilian, but more to taunt his friend than for the elfling’s information. “The Sindar are known for their overabundance of energies and their boundless excitement. You will grow accustomed to his folly before long.” 

“I had expected to become acquainted with the foundlings,” Legolas prattled on, oblivious. “But not one so dear… That is, I planned to gift them…” 

With a triumphant cry, he wrenched a middling pouch from the bowels of his pack. By his straightened posture, Elrohir could sense that Eilian was more intrigued than alarmed by this impulsive behavior of the wood-elf’s. His quarry grasped in a tight fist, Legolas dashed back over to his chair, quickly cleared the bowls, cups, and plates from the small tray, then spilled out the pouch’s rather unexpected contents. A herd of horses, of varying earthen colors and of multiple represented breeds had been whittled out of smooth, porous stone, perfectly sized for an elfling’s fumbling fingers to hold. The elfling went entirely rigid at this unexpected revelation, his near mesmeric attraction to the toys almost countermanding his more sober instincts. Legolas carefully propped each up on its hooves, watching Eilian’s reaction to each figure, attempting to gauge which was his preference. 

As soon as the prince rightened the whitest of the stone steeds, the elfling began to twitch in his seat. 

“Asfalof,” he whispered reverently, wringing his hands as if to keep from reaching out. 

With a wry chuckle at the child’s acuity, for twas indeed Asfaloth on which the horse was modeled, Legolas then proffered the figure to the stunned elfling. Eilian could only gape at him, clearly perplexed, and inwardly somewhat distressed, that he should be given leave to cherish such a treasure. A thorn of pain pricked the warrior’s heart, that one so innocent had suffered in the very woods that raised him, that in their fervor to combat the Shadow the Mirkwood princes had forgotten those most defenseless against its insidious influence. Yet when Elrohir’s sage argent eyes locked with his own, he was heartened by how deeply his sympathies were appreciated. 

Pushing aside his grievances for later consideration, he instead focused on the tormented child before him. Eilian was caught in a silent war within, desperate for some signal from his elders as to what action they wanted from him. Legolas knew twas too soon to truly think of breaking the child of such unfortunate habits, so he sought to distract him. With a resounding whistle, he caught the elfling’s attention. He tweaked his wrist, so that the horse seemed to heed his call, then had the figure gallop up Elrohir’s long leg. At the knee, the steed reared, then whinnied mightily, with Legolas providing all the necessary snorts and grunts for its subsequent trot onto the top of Elrohir’s arm. Legolas feigned the blustery breaths of a horse after a trying ride, when even the most imposing stallion would mewl like a kitten for a nuzzle to his snout. Eilian immediately recognized the sound; indeed, the sweetling was quite transfixed by the creature that had come vividly alive for him. His muscles were visibly clenched in knots, so forcefully did he wish to pet the pale figure. 

“*Ada*,” he bleat, wrenching around to implore Elrohir’s permission, ever enslaved to the obedience so vehemently beat into him. 

“Certainly, you can take him, lass dithen,” Elrohir softly instructed. “Legolas crafted him just for you. He is *yours*, Eilian.” 

With a huff of relief that bordered on a sob, the elfling curled hesitant fingers around the stone horse, then cautiously drew it out of Legolas’ grasp. Only once the figure was cradled in his arms did he dare stroke its mane, still quite evidently marveling at its exquisiteness. Yet he glanced up worriedly at the archer every once in a while, too scarred by experience to entirely let go of his suspicions. Legolas, however, tippled with delight at his coup. So proud was he, that he snapped up a russet stallion and offered this figure to Eilian. 

“And who is this, pen-neth?” he queried, edging its hooves over the stretch of the elf-knight’s arm. The elfling blinked at him, too overwhelmed by the thought of another horse to treasure to truly absorb his question. “Do you not recognize your Adar’s valiant steed?” 

“Aiya, tis Virgor!” Elrohir himself exclaimed, laughing at his own complicity in the game. “Verily, gwador, tis a startling likeness.” He examined each of the figures in turn, realizing that he could quite easily name each one. “Indeed, they are all magnificent renderings. You have developed a fine skill in your time away.” 

“Aye, twas rather peculiar for a wood-elf to pass so many hours whittling rocks,” Legolas acknowledged sheepishly. “Let alone to carry such a quarry along with him, but such is the influence of the Glittering Caves. Their beauty moves one.” 

“Indeed,” Elrohir smirked, nodding down at his enraptured son. 

While the two elders had been jesting, Eilian had welcomed the stone Virgor into the unwieldy folds of his arms. He was struggling to pay ample enough attention to both horses, the sight of which was so endearing Elrohir could not help but give him a doting squeeze, after which he lowered him to the ground. The elfling was so captivated by all the figures that he was instantly drawn over to the tray, then set about admiring each one. He soon surmised that they were not themselves acquainted, so proceeded with gibberish introductions in his own, unique rendition of horse-speak. The elders, in turn, were so rapt upon the child at play that not a word passed between them, though Legolas moved stealthily over by Elrohir’s legs, leaning fully against the sinuous limbs and resting his head on a meaty thigh. Sword-hewn fingers soon glided through sheathes of golden hair, in a silent worship of their own. 

Eilian suddenly halted his play, foist brimming eyes on them both. 

“Mine, Ada?” he squeaked, quite obviously in the cold grip of fear at being denied something he had already wholly given his heart to. “*All* mine?” 

Legolas distinctly heard the scathing regret in Elrohir’s tone, when he answered: “Aye, ioneth, they are yours. Just for you, my dear one. All for you.” 

“Mine, Legles?” Eilian repeated timidly, still uncertain of the archer’s trustworthiness. “*My* ponies?” 

“They are yours, sweetling,” Legolas assured him, barely able to stifle his own rising sadness in the face of those wet, worrying eyes. “You must care for them well, pen-neth. They are very precious, and require much tending if they are to grow strong.” 

Eilian nodded vigorously, his nurturing side fired by this charge. As he set about ordering and instructing them, the Mirkwood prince knew not whether to be touched or amused. 

His elf-knight, however, chose the former. Fluid silver eyes gazed upon him from above, as a veil of ebony hair shielded them from the otherwise preoccupied elfling’s view. The soft, sensuous lips that pressed to his own spoke volumes of his beloved’s gratitude, of his rekindled devotions.

* * * 

As he meandered through the dewy, petal-strewn grass of the densest woodland close in the Rivendell valley, Elrohir was nearly tipsy from the fresh scent of springtime. The blossoms had dropped just the day before, blanketing the sweeps and walks of Imladris in angelic tones of opalescent white, blushing rose, and gossamer gold. The spindly, budding boughs of the forest trees, liberated of their daintiness, were free to flourish into a verdant foliage more resplendant than any in Middle-Earth. The imposing grays of Mirkwood may be the most daunting to a journeyer, the laurelled mallorns of the Golden Wood the most majestic and the gnarled haunts of Fangorn the most hallowed by their Entish guardians, but the thatches of wood about sage Rivedell were by far the most lush, as well as the most fertile, for rarely was a forest of this stature adjacent to orchards of such bountiful yield. 

His valley’s renewal affected the elf-knight as most things did in these first years after the Shadow’s fall, wholly and acutely. 

Indeed, the tides of emotion that had washed so mellifluously through him these last weeks, if oft unmooring, were unprecedented in their force and ardor. Rare was the occasion, in his long millennia, when he had given himself so utterly to blind rushes of feeling, his reason-ruled mind swimming directionless through the aftermath as if a castaway to some foreign port. While he was rudderless in these novel, spiritual adventures, they were nevertheless anchored by those who claimed a considerable stake of his heart’s immeasurable territory. Some who had roamed that parched landscape for centuries, thirsting for but a drop of care, bore witness to the wild torrents of emotion that now flood the once barren field and in a typical reversal of fortunes, fought desperately not to be swept away in the surge. Yet sodden as he constantly was from the spurt of this unsuspected wellspring, Elrohir suddenly felt as fecund as the forest about; as if once he tamed the tempest within him, his soul would flourish, would nourish those so longly famished for his rich affections. 

Though Eilian’s tumultuous insurrection into his embattled existence had been the catalyst to this change of heart, twas his dearest Legolas who laid out the most cunning snares in Minas Tirith, then had tarried some in clearing his traps, allowing his prey an extended season to muse over their communal fate. The lonely nights of winter, while not as bleak as in years past, had been a dirge of bewilderment, irresolution, and regret. When not tending to his charge, Elrohir’s scathingly examined his every choice and action over the last three thousand years, this from a slowly shifting perspective. As he sat, solemn, by the hearth with Eilian dozing in his arms, as he lay prone across a cot in the Healing Halls listening to his son’s shuddery gasps for air, as he was mesmerized by the soothing strokes of the brush through his horse’s hide, he reflected upon his spotty past, picked its more climatic incidents meticulously apart and scoured the fragments for any shred of alternate meaning. Where once he saw only an impoverished evolution, towards inevitable persecution and gutting alienation, he suddenly perceived a golden mean that thread through every moment of import, through suffrage and celebration alike. 

Legolas. 

Incredible as it was that one of his analytical talents might misconstrue such a glaring, vital link through the ages of his life, he had quite deliberately done so, fearful as he had been of the rather inevitable consequences, of the decision that such a blatant trend precipitated; nay, demanded. In opening himself to experience the care, the succor, and the strength that Eilian so crucially required from him, Elrohir could no longer deny the import of his relationship with his Mirkwood prince, nor how essential its development was to his well being. If he was to be an honorable and an impressive force in his son’s life, then he himself must be guided by the very codes he hoped to instill in his youngling. Better yet, he must attune himself to the yearnings of his innermost heart, in service to Legolas and to Eilian both. 

Once he had allowed this primal, eloquent song to bloom within him, he had been astounded by the wealth of its passion. He was a better father to his little sapling son, who grew greener by the day in the shelter of his conservatory care. With the veil of sorrow lifted from his eyes, he saw the doting family that remained him and felt blessed anew for their quiet support, even in his most selfish hours; the devout brother he had ignored, the stricken sister who had so rightly earned her present happiness, the Lord he had stoically obeyed whilst denying the grieving father the solace of the son with which he felt the most affinity. Indeed, his Adar had been his dearest ally in this time of introspection, listening without judgment to even his most scabrous confessions and counseling him through the treacherous road to self recovery. Elrohir had insisted upon a weekly audience with Elrond, so as not to fray the fragile ties they had so recently sewn back together. His father’s estimation had become absolutely essential to his progress, to his course through the trials ahead. 

With Legolas’ most potent advent, the stakes had been undoubtedly raised in the managing of this new, emotive life of his. Elrohir was as haunted by past mistakes as he was weary of future blunders in his relationship with the woodland prince; though from the moment of his arrival, he could not rightly ebb the rush of feeling that coursed through him at the very thought of Legolas. Yet he was all too aware of the need for caution, of how easily the lusting fever that so oft betrayed their best intentions could poison their resolve with wantonness. The baser instincts that had so ruinously possessed them in the last weeks of the war ghosted regularly through his mind when in the archer’s company; if they were to commit to eternity, then their current, fraught present must be chaste. They had to relearn their familiarity, remember their mutual appreciation, return to the fondness, to the complicity that had first soldered their bond of friendship. 

That Legolas had understood this implicitly was a tribute to his sensitivity to Elrohir’s moods and cares. Though the occasional scorching look had been fired across the banquet table, the training fields, or the Hall of Fire, Legolas had not once impinged upon him, nor even broached the subject that no doubt singed his very tongue scarlet. Indeed, he had proved himself faithful to a fault, as much to the abstinence imposed upon him by their compact as to his own, as yet unanswered, conditions therein. As ever, the constrictions of time had pressed the issue; so, as Legolas was set to depart in but a fortnight to found his southern realm, Elrohir would this very day finally break his silence and address the quite unwieldy matter of their togetherness. 

Though he had long been resolved within himself as to his choice, he had wanted to gauge Legolas’ reaction to Eilian, the child’s import in his life and his impact on their future. If the archer had rejected his adopted son or, worse still, reneged on his declaration of love due to the elfling, Elrohir may have chosen differently, may not have survived long enough to choose at all. This, however, was presently leagues away from his concerns, as Legolas had embraced his little one with a gentility and a patience the darkling elf had rarely seen in him during their harsh quest. If Elrohir had delayed the telling of his choice, twas merely because Eilian still occupied the lion’s share of his waking hours and his parental duties came before all, even his temperate archer. He would be forever grateful that Legolas, rather than searching out some other trifle to command his attention, had simply followed their routine along, gracious as ever with his giving. 

Their days had been so plentiful and their activities so enriching to all that Elrohir had barely noticed that he and Legolas had only spare moments alone. Neither, he believed, truly felt a lack there, as they had boundless daylight hours in which to converse. They merely had to do so whilst in the sprightly company of an elfling of a sudden, voracious curiosity about the world around him. Twas as if the archer’s gift had effected a seismic change within the child, who subsequently applied himself to his speech lessons with renewed conviction, obediently underwent arduous massages the Mirkwood prince had devised so that his leg might heal more swiftly, begged for insights into every aspect of his life, and proved altogether more amenable to new experiences, so long as his favored companion introduced him to them. Whether learning the intricacies of bird-speak, the consoling song of the trees, or to brave the dulcet flow of the river, Eilian was a rapt audience to the archer’s tutelage, though even Legolas could not make much progress in terms of his sociability. Yet Elrohir had to constantly remind himself of the tenderness of his son’s age. The elfling had not seen three years pass, but still at times he seemed a child of five or six summers, so hastily had his troubles matured him. Regardless, Elrohir would be forever grateful to his friend for teaching his son that not all strangers sought to harm him, as well as enlightening him as to the pleasures of unsolicited gifts, which gave him a sense of pride, a sense of worth even his father’s love could not entirely bestow. 

He prayed that his coming revelation would be met with same heart that had given so effortlessly to his child, that even such a short separation had not convinced Legolas to look elsewhere for his eternity. 

While he could not presently solidify their forever bond, he sought to ease along their progress towards such a hallowed resolution, to assure Legolas as to his regard and to commence the heady rituals of courtship. Elrohir was, despite his spotty past, adamant that their relationship should develop slowly, organically; to race into a binding would be to err anew. Their earlier experiences had been so plagued by calamity, tensions, and obligations that twas little wonder they were still on speaking terms. They needed to learn of each other again, to nurture both the friendship and the passion that had so long flamed within them. This would be as grievously smote by a hasty bedding as by an impatient bonding; their only allies were gradual endearment, casual flirtation, and genuine camaraderie. 

If only Legolas could be convinced of the necessity of this course, then his heart would truly be healed of its woes. 

Unsurprisingly, he came upon his archer in the glade where they first embroiled themselves in the sultry arts, reclining ponderously against the sacrificing altar, its elegant and evocative centerpiece. Adrift in a rippling sea of rosy petals and arrayed in a formal coat of silvery suede, Legolas looked strangely innocent, indeed almost beatific with the wavy sheathes of his flaxen hair unbound. Elrohir thought he had never observed him so princely in fashion; his dress boots polished, his velour trousers embroidered at the seam, his satin shirt clipped by decorative cuffs at the wrist, and his weapons forgotten in their chest. Having intuited the reason for their private rendezvous, he had come resplendent, thoroughly prepared to dissuade his elf-knight from any misbegotten path he may have set himself upon. 

Yet such were the shameful ways of the Elrohir of old. Though he certainly had no quarrel with the immaculate raiment of his woodland prince, nor would he remain immune to overt admiration of its peerless radiance, he would keep tightly secret the fact that Legolas’ efforts had been for naught but all too welcome show. An effort which the darkling elf took a long moment to absorb, as well as to quell the rakish desire that suddenly bubbled so hotly within him, but useless nonetheless. Twas Legolas that need be won over. 

“Such a vision tis that greets these weary eyes,” Elrohir announced himself, stepping out from the forest wilds. “I thought I dreamed, when I first alit upon you, beauty.” 

Legolas blushed at the compliment, sprung to his feet. 

“You’ve come,” he beamed, though unsure of how affectionately to welcome him. The elf-knight pushed into his arms, hugged him as longly as he should have of the first day of his advent. “Well met, Elrohir.” 

“Well met, ernilen,” Elrohir noted in turn, then plucked the fleetest of kisses from his quivering lips. 

Legolas’ eyes fluttered shut, savoring the moment, but he dared not trail after the caress. While he had not an inkling of what was to come, the significance of their meeting place was not entirely lost upon him. He had spent the better part of the endless night between Elrohir’s invitation and this very second conjuring every possible scenario for the moment’s playing out, from an instant, outlandish declaration of undying love to the cruelest rejection imaginable, though he believed their conversation would fall somewhere between the two extremes. Towards the former, he hoped, but this was a beleaguered lover’s ideal, with naught in common with the precedent their romantic dealings had set so far. Yet he was no puppet to be flounced about, and so made a brash request. 

“You appear so serene, star-rider,” he praised, already quite entranced by those starlit graces. “I must kiss some fire into you.” 

“If you kiss me, you will feel fire enough, I assure you,” Elrohir smirked, then met those pink lips with enough intent to appease his nervy archer. Legolas shivered with delight, with anticipation and with palpable anxiety, such that he himself broke gently off. “Yet I would rather you snuffed some of my more virulent concerns, my dear one, before we come to the matter of fiery kisses.” 

“Concerns?” Legolas queried, then bade them sit upon the altar. “Surely you do not doubt my regard?” 

“Not your regard, entirely,” Elrohir allowed, his regal visage suddenly so vulnerable, so unsure, that Legolas feared the worst. “But perhaps your reluctance to share the inner holds of my heart with an unexpected other.”

“With Eilian, you mean?” Legolas clarified. 

“Aye,” he responded, then hastened on. “I have made a choice in your absence that… that so far I have not judged to be too troubling to you, so hardily have you embraced my youngling, but the reality is that for some years yet he will completely overtake my life and for countless years after he will be a great part of it. I did not solicit your opinion before I charged myself to his care, though I swear I thought longly on it. In the end, I acted as I thought just, as I thought necessary for my own survival, but have I done so at the expense of our togetherness, Legolas?” 

With a secretive smile, Legolas chuckled to himself, then smacked a thick, noisy kiss to his brow. 

“Elbereth, but you are endearing, melethen,” he tippled, inwardly reeling from all that was revealed in just that short speech. “How might I possibly object to the rearing of such a dearly child? One so painfully in need of the finest and most considerate nurturing about? One who flowers such feeling as I have not perceived in you for centuries on? In our time together, I have sped past mere acceptance of his place in our lives and soared into the vivid consideration of… of our future. Though I cannot truly commit myself to his raising for some time yet, I adore him, and I would very much like to…” The archer groaned, unable to voice his more earnest wishes before they had decided themselves. “…to carve him not merely more toys, but a place in my life, as well.” 

Such a wave of relief broke over him, that Elrohir nearly melted into a puddle and spilt over the altar’s edge. 

“I had hoped it would be so,” Elrohir demurred, clasping those agile hands in his and entwining their worn fingers. “Indeed, under his heartening influence, I find I am overcome with… with so many hopes, aspirations… even expectations. I have come to embrace this land anew, and long to see its ages pass firsthand. That is…” He gazed into the archer’s sparkling eyes, and spoke the words he had so long held within. “I have asked you here this day, Legolas, so that I might declare my choice before the one most vital to its making. That in vowing to be of elfkind, we might both communally swear to… to begin our courtship in earnest. To strive to enrich our relationship through the coming separation and beyond, so that once we are both settled… we might bind.” 

Legolas flew so swiftly into his arms, that Elrohir did not even see him flinch. Indeed, twas quite a while before he could stabilize his swirling emotions enough to slowly piece together the movements that had led to his being pounced upon, seized into the most smoldering kiss in recent memory, then lain across the altar top with impassioned defiance of propriety, while his mouth was quite shamelessly plundered. That he was not currently pinned beneath the writhing form of his exultant archer was a testament to the sensitivity that his beloved so effortlessly embodied. Legolas had both received and digested all the well-concealed nuances to his stammering declaration; that their courtship should remain chaste in body, if perhaps not entirely without the occasional tonguing session, that they should deepen their bond through collusion, compassion and togetherness, that he wanted naught but their everlasting commitment, but would have this righteously earned. Every suckle of his sensuous lips, every lap of his flattering tongue was in ardent agreement with all of Elrohir’s caveats, every purr reverberated with unspeakable troths of love. 

When at last the woodland prince eased off into a rapt perusal of his flush face, Elrohir could barely meet his eyes, so immolating was the purity of their stare. 

“Say it loud,” Legolas implored him, after a quiet while. “Speak your sacred vow, so that none across this great land nor any in the heavens above doubt your choice of eternity. Of our eternal togetherness, melethen.” 

Elrohir found the will to lock eyes then, stating his intent with potent conviction. 

“By the grace of the Valar above, in the ethereal light of their Lady,” he gravely intoned. “I would embrace my birthright through the line of the Noldor, my kindred, and would bask in the effulgence of my elven flame for all the ages to come. I would be led to the Blessed Realm by Eru, the One, be of his starlight children forevermore. I am Elrohir Elrondion, of elfkind.” 

In the aqua pools of those shimmering eyes, he saw the otherwordly luminosity that suddenly overtook him reflected, resplendent. Legolas smiled softly, evidence of a deep contentment, then ghosted a kiss over his tingling lips, sealing their own, tender promise. The prince nestled his face against his glowing neck, then cozied possessively up to him, none too eager to give his beloved back to the mending world that cleaved so to his attentions. 

Both relished this quiet, cherished time, dreaming of a later day, when they could linger thus forever, if they so wished.

* * * 

The whoosh of a herd of wild horses galloping down the squishy slope of a pillow lured him into wakefulness, though his eyes were yet heavy with sleep. The beds of Imladris were of such renown plush, so restoring that the very mattress seemed to massage the creaks, strains, and twinges from your back, so luxurious that the very scent of the downy coverlet sent shivers of anticipation down the spine of a wood-elf too long used to the straw cot of the Mirkwood barracks or the hard, damp ground. Consequently, one was rather reluctant to abandon their cozy comforts for just any old reason, especially when the satin sheets were laced with the musky smell of elf-knight. 

The surface of the bed rumbled, forewarning of the herd’s approach. A shrill whinny pierced the stagnant morning air, then an emboldened steed – most probably the magical maeras Shadowfax – cantered up the ramp of his arm and reared triumphantly atop his shoulder blade. A naughty snicker, quite un-horse-like, followed soon after, though the wily beast was withdrawn. The clatter of stone on stone told him that the herd had been arranged in rank and file, waiting for his approving salute. A small body leaned against his side, no doubt admiring his handiwork. 

Legolas smiled inwardly at the elfling’s preternatural sense of discipline. A wood-elf, indeed. The elder healers oft opined that Eilian’s orderly ways were the result of his chaotic early life, but the archer clung to his simpler, alternative theory. Duty, honor, restriction, these were the tenets of the Mirkwood life Eilian had been so calamitously born into, so these were traits he instinctively espoused. Though he would never dare question the wisdom of a Lord who had raised such fine and goodhearted offspring as Elladan, Arwen, and his dearest Elrohir, the woodland prince did pride himself on his own unique perspective in regards to the elfling’s singular circumstance. Indeed, he liked to think that his influence was a boon to the little one; for otherwise how would he learn to sing to the trees or to speak to forest creatures? Legolas was a pristine example to him of the noble Sinda way, which could only benefit him as he grew into a sterling young gallant in his own right.

Yet a child he was still, one in great need of any kindness that could be conceded to him. Feigning deep slumber, Legolas rolled onto his side, leaving the perfect little nook open to any who might desire to venture within. A tiny, cuddly body soon crawled right in, then the archer’s arms cinched to nestle him in tight. With a twitter of contentment, Eilian pressed his face into the prince’s sweat-slick neck, basking in the lofty affection that encircled him. The breezy gusts of breath down his collar slowed to a somnolent rhythm; while the elfling would hardly have dozed off, he was sage enough to cherish this soft moment between them. 

As they both seemed quite comfortable for the present time, Legolas let his thoughts wander back to the previous night. The mystery of how he came to rouse in Elrohir’s bed was soon remembered to him; even so languid he could not help but grin. Once Eilian was settled in his leaf-shaped cot, they had lounged about the balcony in a nest of the cushiest pillows imaginable, beneath a panoply of stars so magnificent that they had been entranced for hours. An exceptional vintage from the ice-bays of Forochel loosed their lazy tongues even further, as bottle after bottle was drunk down as liberally as water from a spring. 

The extensive conversations had perhaps been the most earnest they had ever shared. Elrohir had elaborated on anecdotes from their long years apart, spoke frankly of the lovers he had taken in the past to ease his loneliness, and confessed of the true tenor of the grief that had almost finished him. Though Legolas had known snippets of these troubles, they now took on a grand design of despair, which gave the archer a new understanding of the woes his beloved had to overcome. Yet Elrohir tempered his sympathies and his coddling with inquiries of his own, urging Legolas to speak as honestly as he. The woodland prince had spoke resignedly of the trials of his early years, sheepishly of his near instant besotting upon that telltale midsummer eve, and shyly of his commitment to abstinence through the centuries. By the end of their sprawling discussion, both felt they knew each as no other, and as thoroughly as any prospective mate should. Giddied by the wine, they had finally lurched over to the bed in the early hours, far too sodden to even glean on any physical satisfaction. Instead, they had curled up into a spoon, both murmuring their devotion until they wafted into sleep. 

The thought of spending so many future nights in such snug complicity with his elf-knight, as well as eagerness for the embrace that might welcome him into the morn, compelled him to wake fully, though some mention must be made of the elfling that wriggled impatiently in his arms, apparently quite done with cuddling. With an undulating groan, Legolas flopped onto his back and flipped open his eyes, to the sight of a beaming wood-sprite sitting atop his chest. 

“Smelly elf,” Eilian giggled accusingly. “Baf, Legles!” 

“Stinky peredhil,” Legolas teased back. “Bath for you, as well, pen-neth.” 

To his surprise, the elfling glowered down at him, his eyes glistening with hurt. 

“Elf, Legles,” he quietly admonished. “Eilian be elf. No pewewil. *Elf*.” 

Sensing this was a sore topic, Legolas tread lightly when he remarked: “Your Adar is peredhil, Eilian. Is he not the bravest, finest creature around? And what of your grandsire, and your uncle Elladan? Are they not good, kind peredhil? There is no shame in being what you are, little one.” 

“No same,” the child repeated, meticulously considering his comments. Yet he quickly tired of this sobriety, then chirped a command to his caretaker. “Baf, saes!!” 

Unable to resist that gleeful smile, Legolas hoisted him up by his stronger leg as he himself rose, which elicited such a squeal that it tempted more mischief. Shaking lightly, the elfling’s night-shift easily slipped off, his wriggles doing naught to save it from floating down to the coverlet. Eilian was so thrilled by his subsequent throwing, catching, and tossing over Legolas’ shoulder, that Elrohir came bemusedly out of the bathing chamber to see what all the ruckus was about. The demure, adoring smile he met them with spoke volumes of his care. Legolas, however, was most anxious for his kiss, though twas but a fleet caress so as to avoid the frantic kicking beside. 

“Legles!” Eilian cutely protested, and so was tugged down from his shoulder, but was not saved a pinch to his bare bottom. The elfling released yet another peal of giggles, then pointed adamantly towards the bathing chamber. 

“Do not fret so, sweetling, your bath is indeed drawn,” Elrohir assured him, petting the tousled sheathes of his hair into some semblance of place. Yet his silver eyes soon wandered back to Legolas, whose lips tippled with merriment. “I trust our dear ‘Legles’ can be persuaded to accompany you for a soak?” 

“He can indeed,” Legolas nodded. “I would not dare court our elfling’s no doubt fearsome reproach, should I deny him. And, besides, we have already established that he is a stinky elf.” 

“You smelly elf,” Eilian shot mercurially back, his cunning rather weakened by the way he hugged to the archer’s lithe frame. “Ada come too?” 

“Nay, ioneth, Ada must meet with grandsire this morn,” Elrohir explained. “To say naught of the too tempting sight of a certain woodland prince’s strapping form.” With a flirtatious twinkle, he caught his beloved’s eye. “We shall meet up in the glade for a picnic lunch, if that proves agreeable to you, Legolas.” 

“Most agreeable,” Legolas beamed at him, still drenched with feeling from their long, tender night. 

“Kisses!!” Eilian exclaimed, to which they both chuckled bashfully. 

Even their stealthiest affections had not gone unnoticed by the elfling, who cheered his approval at every chance. While Legolas was only too glad of his delight at their togetherness, Elrohir proved somewhat more cautious, knowing only too well the lengthy separation that loomed ahead. Yet he did not hesitate to pluck a rather plump-lipped kiss from the archer, then fluttered one into his son’s flaxen crown. With a final, fond look, he slipped from the room. 

Barely a dozen minutes later, Legolas was sinking into the velvety waters of their herbal bath, letting the lavender sprigs folded into the wash refresh him. Eilian had been plunked on the shallow shelf constructed for him, gingerly sailing his balsam wood ducks over the skipping surface. Legolas lounged for a longly while, his lax senses swimming through a dulcet reverie, until he felt a pair of rather incisive crystal eyes upon him. He sharpened his focus to mark the little one, who seemed to be mulling over some confounding matter, but unsure of whether, or how, to broach the topic with his elder. Legolas had noticed such a look before, on the few occasions when Elrohir had attempted to impart some adult complexity to his still maturing mind. The elf-knight had been quite accurate in his estimation that Eilian comprehended more than he could admit to, though there were many relational intricacies that yet eluded his basic understanding. 

Intrigued, Legolas smoothed through the waters, until he reclined just near him. He bat a fleeing duck back into the fold, which Eilian rightly took as a sign of his attentiveness. Still, he could see the elfling inwardly grope about to make sense of his ideas, yet Legolas did not judge it seemly to prod him for insight. 

After a frustrated huff, the youngling charged forth into the murky waters of adult behavior. 

“Legles?” he hesitantly began. 

“Aye, pen-neth,” the archer encouraged him. 

“Ada say… you go souf,” he finally stated. “Soon.” 

“Indeed, I will soon journey south,” Legolas answered. “But do not trouble yourself over this, sweetling. When I am gone, I will send gifts and letters, and before you know it, we will be together again.” He was unsure whether Elrohir wished for him to mention that they would meet him in the southlands, so he remained deliberately vague on the issue. 

“You buil house, dere?” he questioned further. “You be…Lor?” 

“Steward,” the archer corrected him. “To the King of Gondor, your Ada’s bond-brother, and to the Queen, Ada’s sister. I have sworn to serve them, and as an elf of honor I must be true to my vow, so I will lead a party of wood-elves to Ithilien, and there we will make our home.”

The elfling digested this thoughtfully, working up to his next inquiry.

“Legles?” Eilian prompted him again. 

With a knowing smirk, Legolas nodded indulgently. “Aye?” 

“Ada say…” he trailed off, suddenly timid. “He say… you be my Ada, soon.” 

Though the woodland prince was quite startled by the elaborateness of Elrohir’s discussions with his son about their circumstance, he knew his answer must be both careful and well considered. 

He started with a question of his own. 

“Eilian,” he softly intoned. “Do you know how Ithildir has both Lathron and Erestor as Adar, and Laliel has both Glorfindel and Elladan as Adar?” He nodded vigorously, eager to understand. “Well, most children have at least two parents, whether Adar and Nanath, or two Adar, or two Naneth. When two elves are bound in a love match, they usually have children together. Your Ada and I had planned to be bound, like those other parents, but we could not because of the war. Your Adar found you while I was away from him, so he took you on all alone. But now that I have come back from my duties, and I have come to know you and to love you so well, I would like to bind with him. And I would especially like if all three of us could be a family.” 

“*Family*,” Eilian echoed sweetly, rather enchanted by the word. 

“If I was to bind with your Ada,” Legolas gently continued, no less than his entire future riding on this one inquiry. “Do you think you could accept me as your second Adar, lass dithen?” 

Before the archer could blink, the child had leapt into his arms. Eilian squeezed his new guardian with all his might, then foist ebullient eyes upon him. 

“Ada-Las,” he proudly christened him, then smacked peck after peck to his cheek, in a furious demonstration of his unwavering approval. Legolas softed a calming kiss to his brow, then pet that silky crown until the elfling laid his spinning head on his shoulder. “We be family in souf. In Ifilien, we have house, an ponies, an tees, an Ada, an Ada-Las, an Eilian!” 

“Aye, pen-neth,” Legolas promised him. “Soon, we will have all of those things. But do not forget love, sweet one. The most important thing we will have is bountiful, hard-earned love.” 

“An Ada be kissing Ada!” Eilian cried, bubbling with giggles anew. 

Legolas had, just then, the strangest sensation of being teased by the mercurial child, thus could not help but recognize him, from then on, as his very own little wood-elf. 

* * *

Unbidden and woeful, the day had finally come. 

Elrohir loomed by the entrance to Arod’s stall, watching Legolas make the last adjustments to his riding packs. The horse bristled with eagerness for the challenge, the freedom of the coming journey, for the humid summer stables were no suitable place for such a battle-hardied steed. Yet even one so seasoned as the elf-knight could not share in his excitement, as this parting was, for him, the most melancholy he had ever experienced. Though his mind well understood the necessity of Legolas’ departure, as twas now the archer’s turn to trench his place in the fertile soils of this vast land, his burgeoning heart could not help but wither some at the thought of another, extensive separation. While they would make every effort to nourish the thriving relationship they had generously tended over the past three months, its deepening had only caused both to become even more famished for the other’s companionship and regard. 

Frequent correspondence would only partially appease. Already his twitchy nerves urged him to block the archer’s way, to beg him to remain but another year, to debase his own precariously endowed honor by imploring his promised one to hearken to him for just a short while longer. Though Elrohir himself would have responsibilities enough to occupy, such as the rearing of one perilously endearing elfling, that his rejuvenated heart would have to patient out yet another impossible stretch of time to earn its fulfillment did chafe him some. These last weeks especially had only further reminded him of what a singular and special influence the woodland prince’s friendship had over him. In truth, he felt that with the archer’s leave-taking, a barely nascent part of him would be lost to waiting for far too long. He wanted their emboldened passions to threatened the boundaries of his emotional security, the compassion of their age-old friendship to erase the doubts that yet lurked within him, the warmth he implicitly sensed between them to balm over any lingering fears. 

He wanted to know the full bloom of their love, at long last. 

Yet when his fraught, reserved gaze lit upon his Legolas, he could not deny the humble bud of affection that blossomed within him. 

The Lord of Ithilien tested the last buckle for tightness, then fondly pat his horse’s flank. With a soft sight to temper his more rebellious emotions, he prepared himself for the sight of beauteous, distraught Elrohir waiting in the doorway. His elf-knight would be looking to him for certitude, for resolve, but at the moment he felt none. Indeed, the idea of abandoning his steed to the groom for airing, guiding his beloved up to his already immaculate bedchamber, then spending a leisurely afternoon in abject worship of his ethereal graces had possessed him ever since waking that somber dawn, aided none by Elrohir’s own brittleness that morn. Yet he could hardly blame the darkling elf for his desolation, as implacably concealed as it was before even his own kindred, for Legolas was no less saddened by their situation. 

If ought, its similarity to another bleak, duty-bound departure two millennia ago only further scratched at his irritation; for the archer had long come to the realization that, if he had remained in Imladris instead of returning to Mirkwood when Lathron was so perilously injured that winter, perhaps he would have won his elf-knight’s heart long ago. In his mind, that specific decision had cost them years of untold joy, yet was he erring just as fatefully now? Would this absence bring about another calamity, one that might not be remedied? His dreams had been haunted by this thought for weeks, ever since Elrohir had earnestly vouched his regard. He could only pray that the peacetime would protect their infant love against all the ills that might strangle it in its crib, could only trust in the slow process of maturation that always seemed to grow them closer together.

Twas with weary eyes that he turned to behold his elf-knight, to beckon him into the embrace that they could not engage in publicly, even before their loved ones. Both had been in firm agreement on the subject of displaying their kindling romance to the world at large. The pressures were far too intense, especially upon Elrohir, to warrant any kind of honesty in this regard. Legolas had been especially concerned that his beloved would suffer through the prodding of the elders of Imladris for years untold, perhaps even dissuaded from their togetherness by the annoyance of several rather well-intentioned familiars pontificating on his every move, or lack thereof. While Legolas would only have to bear through Arwen’s occasional disparaging, Elrohir would have to relentlessly defend himself against Elladan, Glorfindel, Elrond, Erestor, even Lathron. Though Eilian was well aware of their deepening bond, this was in preparation for his acceptance of it, which had already been rather emphatically declared. Yet Elrohir had been sickened enough by self-doubt in the year since the war’s end that to have to routinely revisit his hesitation, his insecurity, or his easy acceptance of their pledging’s delay would be a torment his prince would gladly spare him. Legolas was only too conscious of the frailty of their relations, the strain of another separation, to allow Elrohir to shoulder the lion’s share of their familial inquisitions, thus they had together concluded to disguise their fondness as nothing more that a tightly reestablished friendship. 

This, however, necessitated that their farewell be bidden in private. Both, now that they were but steps away from that last, tender clutch, were beginning to wonder if they would indeed be able to sufficiently keep counsel out in the courtyard. As they folded into the other’s silken hold, Elrohir looked particularly wan; his tongue prickled with all the unspoken troths he could not rightly burden his prince with. Not even Legolas’ departure for the quest had been so grave, so restless with disquiet. 

“If you’ve need of me,” the elf-knight finally settled on an appropriate remark. “Do not doubt that I will come forthwith. You’ve only to send word, and I will hasten southwards.” 

“I would similarly counsel you, melethen,” Legolas responded, his breath fuming over the darkling elf’s temple. “If you grow too lonely, or calamity strikes, do not hesitate to beckon me home.” 

“Tis the establishment of our future home I linger upon, Legolas,” he encouraged him. “You are not yet gone, and still I await your summons with aching desperation. But do not let my anxiousness weight upon you, my brave one. Take your boldest inspiration from the feeling between us, and build the colony of our childhood dreams.”

“I will, Elrohir,” he hotly promised. “I swear it.” 

“Then be off, so that we may be sooner reunited,” the elf-knight smirked, though with little mirth underlying the gesture. 

Legolas nodded quietly, as he cupped the darkling elf’s pallid cheek with a cradling palm. He pressed a kiss of such sublimity, such purity to Elrohir’s trembling lips, that even one oft so stoic as he could not help how his eyes welled with unshed tears. 

“Sure as the ebb and flow of the tide over the sandy shores of Belfalas,” Legolas murmured, with sudden, violent passion. “Is my love for you, star-rider. Do not forget me, in the years to come. Do not regret a single moment of what has passed before. Every pain, every doubt had earned us our togetherness. I am wholly yours, Elrohir. Hearken to me, when I call you home.” 

After a last, fervent embrace, they broke apart. 

End of Part Seven


	8. Chapter 8

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Eight

Nine Years Later

As he gazed out into the dozing valley beyond his frost-encrusted window, Elladan could not help but feel the dubious pricks of impending mischief tickle up his spine. While Elrohir had ever been one to enjoy the cozy climes of their winter-bound home, the bleak season left his more unruly twin as restless as whence he had been in the prime of elflinghood. This fiery disposition was only stoked further by the legion of elflings in their charge, most raring to dive into the downy thick of a snow bank or skate across the silvery ice that encased the Bruinen. 

Yet twas his great misfortune to be stuck perusing their inventory of stores to see what supplies they might spare the nearby village of Barrowman’s Close, which still suffered from a paltry harvest yield even nine years past the Shadow’s fall. With their warrior/farmers either still away hunting the last remnants of orcs, struggling to till long neglected soil, or having been killed outright, the youthful population of the mannish town was so badly depleted that the elders were considering migrating up to Bree. Until such a decision had indeed come to pass, however, Imladris was lending what support it could; certainly the peredhel were deeply sympathetic to their plight. 

Despite the compassionate purpose of his chore, Elladan was not so terribly moved to as to hasten its completion, not on such a bracing winter day. If only Glorfindel was not preoccupied by the tending of a wounded horse, he would have a legitimate distraction from his scrolls, as most of the elders were loath to deny the Balrog-slayer an afternoon’s indulgence with his mate. His needs were humble enough, after all. He longed for nothing more than a stroll through the snow-swept woods with his beloved, bundled in their fur-lined cloaks, sneaking off sultry kisses for warmth. Indeed, twould be well if Laliel accompanied them, so their daughter could expend much of her seemingly endless supply of energy in racing back and forth from her latest, astounding discovery, thus assuring her droopy fatigue in the early hours of evening and her fathers a late night of loving. Was this so much to ask of a sterling winter’s day?

Even the sight of Elrohir, so preternaturally concentrated on his own diplomatic affairs across their twinned desks, riled him something fierce, as if his brother’s dedication to his governmental responsibilities was an annoyance to him. While he did oft admire Elrohir’s patience in these matters, Elladan’s objections to his complacence were not exclusively fuelled by his mad desire to be freed from his own shackling duties, but by genuine concern for his brother’s well being. None among their tight cabal of elders had mistaken how muted the elf-knight’s luminous countenance had become of late, nor how quickly any flicker of enthusiasm was smote by officious reserve. 

Even Eilian was beginning to exhibit some distress at his father’s near constant sobriety. While Elrohir could certainly not be accused of neglecting his son by any means, their play seemed to drain him more swiftly than was usual, to say naught of how his series of lessons tired him on days when the elflings were particularly rowdy. Indeed, he had, since autumn, ceded a more ample share of subjects to Erestor, ostensibly to focus on the governing of Imladris, but Elladan had remarked that he more often spent these afternoons in private tutorial with Eilian. There were even evenings in the Hall of Fire when his brother appeared to require the succor of his son more than the child needed his father’s care. With a few well-practiced whimpers, the elfling could easily coax Elrohir into an armchair by the fire, where they would linger long after his curfew, drowsy Eilian tucked snugly in as he was read to from the Book of Legends. Elladan certainly had to credit the child for being quite sharply attuned to his father’s moods, yet his inbred obedience failed him some, even in such fearsome loyalty to the elf-knight. If his brother’s heart was ailing, as the symptomatic evidence increasingly seemed to predict, then Elrohir did not need assuagement, but insurgence. 

Elladan had a rather clear notion of what had incited this slow dimming of his twin’s constant flame, but he could hardly confront him directly. He had met only resistance in the past, present circumstance would be no different. Yet he had become rather anxious over the maintenance of his brother’s good health, thus some sort of intervention would inevitably be called for soon. 

As he vowed to himself that he would consult with Glorfindel that very night, a so very welcome, so very merry little sprite skipped in to interrupt them. Elladan did not hesitate to scoop his daughter up onto his lap and to torture her with tickles until she gave up her wares, a pouch of missives just plucked from the messenger falcon’s claw. By the regal blue fabric of the pouch, the writs came from Gondor, to which Elladan huffed in mock exasperation. There would evidently be no end to his infernal documenting this afternoon. After planting a squishy kiss on his cheek, Laliel clamored down from her perch and scurried off, no doubt chased away by the stale stench of dullness about. 

With a grumbling scowl, Elladan flipped through the scrolls, until he came upon a parchment sealed closed on every side, no less than a hive’s worth of beeswax spared for the task. Yet the hand that had addressed it was patently familiar to him, such that the edges of his lips perked deviously up and his eyes twinkled with rather Silvan mercury. There would indeed be some mischief accomplished this stultifying afternoon, perhaps even in a goodly name. 

Seizing his oblivious brother up as a hunter stalks his prey, he then tossed over the envelope with a marksman’s skill. It landed perfectly in the center of the ledger Elrohir was examining, such that the elf-knight’s eyes gleaned upon it before he even realized what had occurred. A shock wave rippled through him at the reception of such a missive, yet he remained studiously cool. Elladan recognized his casual dismissal of the letter as the overture it was perhaps not entirely intended to be, yet far be it from him not to take full advantage of its opportune advent to nudge his brother into some disclosure of long kept secrets. 

“Perhaps I might fetch us some tea?” he suggested. “Even the air within has grown chill, and you appear to be wanting some privacy.” 

After a snort, Elrohir foist indignant eyes upon him. 

“I’ll have privacy enough in my rooms this eve,” he balefully replied. “Last I checked, there was a kettle by the hearth.” 

“Then perhaps you’ve toiled enough for one day, toren,” Elladan pressed him. “You might retire to your study. The scrolls will still await you, in the morn.” 

“As the letter will await the completion of my chores, Elladan,” the elf-knight insisted. “You must be bored far past endurance if such a simple writ intrigues you. If you are so restless, then why not be done with the store tallies and seek Glorfindel out? The work, as you’ve said, will await you.” 

“Do you think me so neglectful?” Elladan teasingly demanded, knowing full well that he was. 

“Nay, I judge you too fidgety to keep proper counsel,” Elrohir shot back, without a hint of mirth implied. “Now be gone, before I completely loose my temper.”

“Then why do you not secret away with the letter and be heartened?” Elladan queried softly. 

“This humble letter is bequeathed with power beyond its mean, by your deranged logic,” Elrohir snapped. “I cannot conceive of how its contents might be so miraculous as to hearten one so surly as I, in your esteem.” 

After a lengthy sigh, Elladan made the rather rash decision to abandon subtlety and insinuation for frankness, propriety be damned. Some pain was aching within his brother and he would have it out.

“Do you truly think me so dull as to not have remarked how his letters always enliven you?” Elladan gently inquired. “How you savor every word like a spoonful of honey?” 

“He is my dearest friend,” Elrohir curtly replied. “If I am cheered by his correspondence, tis only because I miss his company.” 

“Then why not steal away and be cheered some?” Elladan proposed. “Let his good humor lighten yours?” 

With a wry grunt, Elrohir challenged: “Am I in such need of livening? I want only to accomplish my work in peace.” 

“Aye,” Elladan acknowledged pointedly. “Of late, you are most dour. Broody. Melancholic, one might say, but then one would have to be privy to the feelings that swell the inner chambers of your heart, from which I have been lately banished. As such, I am resigned to the worst assumptions possible, which, by all current evidence, seem quite mournfully supported, what with your skin so sickly pale and your regard so sullen.” 

A repentant look came over the elf-knight’s face, though his thoughts turned inaccessibly inward. 

“I am well enough,” he answered weakly. “I assure you.” 

“Nay, you are quite a ways off from wellness,” Elladan underlined. “Indeed, by my healer’s eyes, you are flirting quite perilously with the first stages of grief.” 

Elrohir started at this, then he scoffed: “One only fades from a broken heart. Mine is entirely whole, Elladan, have no fear.” 

“How can it be considered whole, when stretched over such a distance?” the elf-warrior asked boldly. “Why can you not admit that you pine for him? That you long to be with him? That you-“ 

“Tis no affair of yours who my heart craves for!” Elrohir suddenly bellowed, fixing livid eyes on his stunned brother. “Do you think I am so blind as not to see the ashes that shroud my face in sorrow? Do you think I am so witless as to be ignorant to my own cares? Tis all I can do to bear through the loneliness, the endless separation, this broodiness you accuse me of. Yet perhaps you might have considered how some occasional moodiness better helps me push beyond the pain, to some base form of forbearance, for I will not flaunt my misery, nor my most secret heart to the valley wild. If you are so keen in your observance, then why need I tell you how I love him, how I am tormented nightly for want of his touch, how I daily pine for his advice, his companionship, his mercurial ways and his solid support? How our last parting nearly cleft my heart in twain, how every day apart from him is the most searing agony I have ever known, how I see similar desolation in my son and such witness guts me through. How the day I receive his beckoning south will be the most glorious I have ever known, save for that of our impending reunion. Is this show enough of my most secret emotions? Are you satisfied, Elladan? Do I seem appeased, now that I have spoke it all aloud? Are my troubles ended, then, with this provoked confession? Am I cured of longing? Of wanting? Of loving?!” 

His anger spent, Elrohir grappled unsteadily to his feet, then skulked over to the window. After a long moment of deflation, Elladan followed him there, then laid pacifying hands on his shuddering shoulders. 

“You must go to him, come springtime,” he hushly advised. “You cannot chance another winter, toren.”

“He has not summoned me down,” Elrohir whispered in objection. “The colony is not yet suitably readied…”

“*You* are readied,” Elladan fondly insisted, enclosing him in a tight hug from behind. “To claim your mate, Elrohir. Legolas fretted for so long that you did not sufficiently need him. Do not falter now, when that sought-after need has finally flamed within.” 

After a blustery exhalation, Elrohir nodded his assent. He allowed Elladan to draw him over by the hearth, so that he might hear further confession of his braising, besotting love.

* * * 

A flirty, fragrant wind was rich with the scent of wild lavender as it swished, giddy, through the drowsy trees of Ithilien on this enchanted summer eve. Indeed, the entire forest swayed as if in nature’s seductive thrall; the dark, graceful boughs undulated in the lively breeze, their leaves tittering in the opalescent cast of moonlight, as if gossips at a festival dance. Even the blackest of woodland hollows was haloed by buzzing fireflies, their swarms strung together like rings of fairy lights. 

Though the haunting croon of the nightingale competed with the merry trickle of the brook, Legolas was most attuned to the languid, melodious song of the trees, whose dulcet chorale paid grateful tribute to their renewer. This still blooming summer promised to be the most lush the forest had yet known since the Shadow’s fall. Even this princely gallant of Greenwood the Great had ample cause to marvel at the diversity of flora and fauna that continued to flourish in his expertly tended realm, many species of which he had never seen before. Especially lovely were the vines of blue and purple flowers that swirled around the mightier trunks, such as the delicate wisteria that twined up the stairs to his own talan. As he moved through the twilight balm, lulled into a slow, wandering stride by the cajoling woods that surrounded him, he felt the peace that came with a task well complete. 

That very afternoon, while lounging on the terrace of his talan, he had finally writ out the letter that his mind had composed a thousand times in the throes of reverie; his southerly summons to Elrohir. With their home crafted to the nth of his daunting perfectionism, his forest bountiful and his colony thriving, a blissful future only waited upon their binding union. He need only practice some routine meditation to quell his mounting impatience through the following, harrowing weeks until his beloved came to him and all their years of strife would be forgotten in the fever of their blistering reunion. By this late hour, the missive would have already arrived at the Citadel, its owlish courier nothing if not prompt with his deliveries. Arwen would not tarry to charge her swiftest falcon, once the import related in his note impressed upon her. His elf-knight, even burdened with a sprightly elfling, could easily make the trek in a month, perhaps his haste would even see them rejoined by midsummer. 

Typical of one of his Silvan wiles, Legolas had every confidence that their happiness was, at last, ensured. As diligently as he had fought to form a colony of hardy, humble elves thoroughly enamored of this woodland realm, as well as to nurture his swatch of forest back into splendid fecundity, his prime focus had been on the construction of a home for the family he hoped to lure there, to berth there for decades to come. While some ornamental engravings had been commissioned by local artisans, he had been instrumental in every aspect of the design and had built the entire talan himself, only enlisting aid when a log or something of similar weightiness could not be bourn alone. His whittling hobby had burgeoned into an astonishing talent for wood-work, not a piece of the furnishings nor a slate of the roof had missed his personal touch. He had even selected the fabrics for the linens, draperies, and bedding, as well as hunted the game from which the tanners fashioned the furs and hides employed for various functions about the house. 

His most creative efforts had gone into the decoration of the tiny, separate chamber adjoined to the main suite of rooms by a mirthil bridge, a private bedchamber for Eilian. Legolas had filled the room with every gadget, motif, or amenity he would have enjoyed in his elfling years, as well as several unique to his little wood-elf’s distinct personality. In essence, he had imagined, as instructed by Elrohir, the bedchamber of his childhood dreams, complete with a railed perch from which to listen to the trees, a skylight through which to admire the stars, and a bird trough lining the window above his tiny desk. The leaf-shaped, hanging bed could either be anchored to the wall, or set to swing in the breeze. A vine-ladder lead up to a nesting ledge, plumped with feathery pillows, where a book could be read in luxury. The wash basin was carved in the vein of the fountain in Imladris’ main courtyard, with towels hanging from gull-beaked fixtures. The wardrobe was a replica of the entrance to the mines of Moria; he had even had Mithrandir spell it to open on the speaking of the word ‘friend’. Best of all, in Legolas’ proud estimation, was the treasure chest, which he had filled with toys from every realm and people in Arda, including dwarven blocks, a reed flute from Mirkwood, a sling from Hobbiton, a fishing contraption with a set of large rings from Belfalas, a bean-sack game from Harad, a fleet saucer that could be tossed about from Lorien, a set of Knights and Squires from Minas Tirith, and a linseed-parchment journal from the Gray Havens, among other pleasantries. The archer himself could not quite unravel the usage for many of the toys he had been sent by various courtiers and diplomats, yet he was sure Eilian’s green mind would readily decipher them, if not put them to some even more logical function. Though he had not seen the child for some eight years, his mind could not help but repeatedly conjure up those avid blue eyes shining with abject wonder at his first sight of the open chest, as well as the glee with which he might explore his new bedchamber. 

This daydream was second only in his mind to the thought of Elrohir’s first venture into their home, along with the explicitness of the gratitude he might subsequently wreck upon him. 

As the years had passed and their reunion been further delayed, his elf-knight’s letters had grown increasingly passionate. Unburdened of the pressure of immediate reaction, Elrohir had slowly immersed himself in the constant flow of love between them. Presently, its fervor was such that it spilt from his quill in thick slashes of ink, even the most sober tale etched with suppressed longing. Indeed, Legolas increasingly found that, in order to pay proper due to his beloved’s troths, he needed to fully sequester himself in his bedchamber. Elrohir would always begin with recounting his more secular preoccupations, but by the third parchment emotionality would overtake him, then, by the fifth, the page would bleed scarlet. Legolas would by this time abandon the letter altogether, overtaken by the uxorious images with which his beloved had seeded his sultry imaginings. Once, over nights of devout musing, he had thoroughly spent himself of this particular missive’s salacious qualities, he would scratch off a swollen screed of his own. This cycle had continued on apace over the lonely years of their separation, but at last Legolas could look forward to a prospective night of shared indulgence, of revels far more sensual than any even one of Elrohir’s letters could incite. 

As his flighty mind mulled over this lurid fantasy, a minor chord sounded in the reverent song of the trees, just seconds before the welcome gong was struck. A royal visit, at this late hour? As he sped up his pace and set out for the central path to the gates, Legolas prayed no orcish mischief was afoot to ruin his reunion plans. When he broke into the main clearing, the stealthy chirps of his sentries alerted him that all was in the clear, then he spied the dismounting company. Luinaelin, who had taken up the role of his chief advisor, was already heartily greeting Lathron, Erestor, and a gangly Ithildir, which brought a jubilant smile to his face. He hastened over to join them, anxious for his brother’s wry smirk when he prodded him for news of the brethren, for the easy way between them, and, later, for a private word on how Elrohir was bearing up. 

He was barely ten paces from them when he was summarily pounced upon, though he had not a moment to reflect on what manner of creature could have evaded the keen senses of a warrior such as he when a trill of rabid delight assaulted those same, sharp senses. 

“Ada-Las!!” cried the bundle he now clutched in his arms, though Legolas was so astounded that he nearly dropped him outright. 

He recovered admirably from the shock of suddenly holding his rather ecstatic son, who squeezed him with every last speck of his admittedly feeble might even as he squirmed in raucous excitement. A peal of mad giggles bubbled against his shoulder, then a flaxen head lifted to reveal an absolutely scintillating grin. Eyes swimming with elation seized upon him, so wet with feeling that Legolas was speechless. Yet his own spoke volumes to the elfling, who was sage enough to press their cheeks together and let the moment exist in its own right. 

“Well met, sweetling,” he whispered at last. “I cannot possibly express how deeply I have wanted for your cheer to brighten my days. I am so glad to see you come.” 

“Home,” Eilian finished for him, though Legolas would never have been so bold in suggestion. “Come home, Ada-Las.” He looked up, then, to better appreciate his new surroundings. “Where is your house? Where do the elves hide? Is there a village? A river? A common hall, like in the letters? Are guards hiding up in the trees? When we got to the White City, there were knights to bring us up to the top! There were men and ladies in the streets, some with little ones, and horses and dogs, too! I got scared, but Ada let me ride with him, and there were so many guards to protect me, but then when we got to the tower I saw that they were men! But then before they left they bowed to us, so it was alright, and some of the other men were scary, but Ada was always with me so you shouldn’t worry, he said. I met the King! But Ada says he is my uncle, like Elladan, and that Arwen the queen is my aunt, though I’ve never had an aunt before, and she is an elf! And I met the prince! He’s just little, Ada, even littler than me! He couldn’t even play, he was so tiny! But Ithildir was there, and we played in the gardens, and…” 

The breakneck spew of his recollections continued on, though the child was so endearing Legolas had not the heart to interrupt him. He could not quite mask his surprise at the maturation of the elfling’s speech, nor the volume of his remarks, but so eager was Eilian to tell him all that instant that he made no note of his astonishment, nor did he mark the bemused looks Lathron and Erestor shot Legolas. Yet the archer was only too happy to bear witness to his son’s growth, if he was indeed as hale as he seemed. Though still somewhat slim, the child was of decent height for his age, of the lithe, limber build of the Silvan tribe. His leg kicked as if completely healed and his grip was of surprising strength, which lead Legolas to assume he had imposed a regular regimen of tree-climbing upon himself. His instincts were marvelously quick. He missed not a creak nor a snap nor a rustle in the woods about; he also seemed unconsciously attuned to the rhythm of the forest, to which his pulse and his pace soon adapted. He was, as ever, of purest wood-elven ilk. 

Yet it was Legolas’ pulse that began to race, when Luinaelin offered to escort the company to the guest house already being prepared for them. 

“Come along, lass dithen,” Lathron beckoned the chatty elfling. “You must be thirsty after our long journey! Come enjoy some mead and honeycakes with Ithildir, and your Adar will catch us up later.” 

A smile of downright mischievous mean came over his mercurial youngling, then, with a last squeeze to Legolas, he was set on his feet. After eliciting a promise to see him soonest in the banquet hall, he obediently took Lathron’s hand, but those twinkling eyes remained fixed upon his golden father even as they disappeared into the forest haunts. Legolas was still so impressed by his son’s development that he watched their shadows fade away into the midnight wood, until a touch of near immaculate tenderness ghosted over his cheek. 

His head whipped around, but even one so stolid as he was barely prepared for the immolating sight of his ethereal, entrancing elf-knight. 

“Melethen,” he bleat, then was stunned by a kiss so blazing, yet so effluent with emotion, that he nearly lost his footing and swooned into the darkling elf’s embrace. 

Instead, Elrohir folded him into warm, securing arms, then softened his ardent kiss into a silky caress. Both rather sodden with insurgent love, they reveled in the interplay of plumy lips and giddy tongues, relating in their own private language of moans, purrs, and throaty rasps. Yet the elf-knight’s fervor proved quite insatiable, as every time Legolas attempted to pull away to admire the too-stirring sight of his lover before him, he was supped and drunk from anew; as if all the nourishment required by his extensive journeying came from the font of the archer’s mouth. By the time Legolas cupped his flush face, then drew several deep, devastating kisses from his worshipful beloved, Elrohir was shaking such that he feared him overcome by a sudden wave of despair. When finally he was sated of kissing, he entrenched himself in such a crushing hug that Legolas thought his spine might snap, though this did naught to quell his darkling one’s fearsome quaking. 

As he soothed strokes down his beloved’s back, he was struck by sudden, worrisome understanding. Though the frame in his arms was broad and thick boned, it was strewn with thin-stretched muscle, not a plump of meat even at the haunches. He brought a hand to his mouth for a caress and barely stifled a gasp at its pallor, to say naught of its spindly fingers. He brushed a swath of that ebony hair from his cheek to find cobwebs of ash dusted over his skin. As he coddled his still trembling love, who had nevertheless quieted some as he was bathed in Legolas’ peerless succor, he cursed his own idiocy at abandoning his heart so long, the lust that had blinded him to the more poignant message within his letters, and his witlessness at not foreseeing how such an extensive absence might affect one of Elrohir’s so recently resurrected sensibilities. Yet for all his self-berating, he felt even more incensed that not a one of the elf-knight’s kinsman had summoned him north. These were not the scars of one lately felled by fading, these ravages were time-worn! 

By the time Elrohir was so glutted with affection as to dare right himself, seeking out a more leisurely smear of lips and lave of tongues, Legolas simmered so as to nearly deny him; though reason did manage to penetrate some and he gave fully of what his waning beloved was so needful of. When his darkling love did finally draw back to behold him, Legolas was so bedazzled by the beam of those adoring eyes that, for a lengthy while, he could not quite rally himself to the charge. He was utterly immersed in pools of shining, quickening silver, in a look so wrought with love that he could do naught but dive in awhile. They remained rapt upon each other for so long the air around them began to cool, though nothing could smite the flames of feeling that so wholly engulfed them both. 

“Why did you not call me north?” Legolas demanded, as he further cinched his hold on his beloved. “You cannot allow yourself to suffer so, Elrohir! Not when I could have so easily been summoned, when I could have come to succor you; to bring you home, if needed be! Your heart ailed for so long after your mother’s passing, it guts me through to think that my absence so needlessly caused you further torment.” 

“Hush,” Elrohir admonished him, then forced his quiet with a kiss. “Tis but a recent development, and a bearable one, at that. I only waited-out the winter, melethen; as you plainly see, I have come to you. My affairs at Imladris are ordered. I must return, in due time, but not for some years yet. I have come for our eternity, come to claim you, my Legolas. To love you, forevermore.” Their lips met anew, in such a searing kiss that both were nearly maddened by its fire. Yet Elrohir, in addition to lightening some from such remedial attentions, grew suddenly quite sheepish. “Though, I must confess, I did fancy my dimming somewhat… romantic, on the whole, as there could be no stronger evidence of the worth of my love for you, maltaren.” 

“Your heart was ever of peerless worth, star-rider,” Legolas swore, as he inwardly vowed to see him well again, soonest. “Such a treasure to this humble wood-elf that I will ever esteem it above all else, tend it, cherish it, nurture it as no other.” A flint of mercury came across his still concerned features. “Though I do rather relish the chance to fully apply myself to your healing…” 

“As I find myself rather raring to be mended by your sensual care, beauty,” Elrohir purred against his throat, having melted back into his securing embrace. 

Legolas sighed, traced the slope of his teardrop ear with satiny lips, then licked the peak with his tongue-tip. While it pained him that he could do naught but accept the circumstance as it inevitably was, he would rather that Elrohir be here, enclosed in his arms, than elsewhere suffering in silence. He would have to strive to cure him of his disquieting tendency to internalize his woes, but Legolas could think of no better way to effect such a perspective change than through constant, heady loving, which he was all too ready to drench him in. Indeed, this night would see the doling out of the first dose of carnal medicine, a thought which sent shivers through his own tension-wrought nerves. 

“Yet there remains the small matter of a certain elfling’s overabundance of eagerness,” Legolas reminded him, in a low, luring voice. “Before we may retire to our pleasures.” 

A throaty snicker rumbled forth, then Elrohir straightened himself, yet was not so resolved as to release an inch of his hold on the archer. 

“As soon as he’s bathed and fed,” the elf-knight responded. “He’ll drop into his slumber bed like a pebble into a deep well. He burnt out all his energies in anticipation, tis ever so with one so rambunctious as he. As soon as we’ve sung him a lullaby, he’ll race off to catch his dreams.” 

“I certainly pray tis so,” Legolas softly insisted. “For mine have been fulfilled, this night, and I cannot wait long on their indulgence.” After a last, lingering kiss, he whispered his final welcome. “Come, my love. Come into our home.” 

* * * 

Twas upon a sterling midnight in the somnolent woods of Ithilien that the hallowed elf-knight of Imladris, one of the great gallants of the age, was engaged in a conflict of wills common to every vigilant parent in the land. A battle of more epic scope than the Ring War itself was being waged in the cradle of his arms, as Eilian lashed, with every whip of enthusiasm his exhausted mind could muster, at the cosseting clouds of sleep that misted over his sparkling eyes, still all-too-eager to marvel at every playful ornament in his new bedchamber. While Elrohir was himself rather glutted with admiration for the elf who had designed such an enchanting room, he also well appreciated that its secrets could not all be uncovered in one manic night. 

In as valiant an effort as he had ever expended in the throes of hard combat, he had gathered up his sprightly one, praying that the constant rocking of familiar arms would lull him into too necessary slumber. The day had been full to bursting with as many trials as thrills; Elrohir was too keen a father not to recognize how the dark horizon of an impending tantrum grayed the sleep clouds in those blue eyes, how overexcitement threatened to turn his young one fretful. With murmured reassurances that the magical room would still be there in the morn, he kissed and cooed his drowsy elfling, until those weighty lids finally closed and that slender body grew heavy in his arms. After tucking his precious charge into his rather adorable leaf-shaped bed, releasing the latch that secured it to the wall, then urging the basket into a gentle sway, Elrohir listened as the faint, settling snortles faded softly away and Eilian was swept off to the rosy climes of his dreamscape. 

Yet twas little wonder to him that persuading his son to give way to sleep had been somewhat troublesome, since the entire night thus far had seemed the most captivating dream imaginable to them both. No sooner had Legolas guided him to the banquet hall than a hardy feast had been laid out for them, into which his company had already dug quite deep. With stealthy caresses to incite him, Legolas had pushed plate after plate in front of him; the fringes of worry cindering the rounds of his bright irises so painful to witness that Elrohir had eaten more than his usual full, to pacify him. He certainly did not want their togetherness to begin on so grave a note, with Legolas tense and exigent. If the archer only knew how fiercely he had fought off the gloom that had encroached upon him, how his arrival here, in the bosom of his lover’s care, was not a callow show of endurance but the triumph of his desire to be well, *whole*, over his blacker resolutions. In reuniting with Legolas, he had expelled the last of his doubt, of his insecurity, had tapped the wealth of love within him and wished to share its richest treasures with his dear beloved. 

To this end, he had, at the meal, been even more overtly demonstrative than the woodland prince, his roving hands ever busied with their incessant grips, clutches, and caresses, his flattering gaze torn from the sight of his fair one only with great reluctance, his conversation peppered with such a volley of flirty asides that Legolas could not linger too long in his anxiety, as he was too preoccupied with blushing. Even in their adolescent years, Elrohir had never taken such liberties with his wicked witticisms in reference to the archer, as such the Mirkwood prince was somewhat unaccustomed to such salacious, if underhanded, compliments and thus could not mount anything resembling a proper defense. Lathron and Erestor, however, as longtime bondeds and as elves of exceptional merriment, had had no scruples about adding their own roguish barbs to the fray, such that Legolas’ face was soon flush a rather fetching crimson, while the elflings about remained oblivious to all but the effects of their gibes upon the archer. Their peals and trills had proven soothing to his embarrassed love, never one to shirk from a chuckle at his own expense. By the time they had bid them a mirthful farewell, after having escorted them to the guest chambers, Legolas had been so plied by amusement that Elrohir found twas he who had to guide the archer’s step, as well as weave a supportive arm around his waist. 

Both had been quite mischievously frisky on the path to their talan, leaning gaudily against each other, sneaking nips, pinches, and sips from giggle-rosied skin, whispering of their more lascivious intentions once in private quarters. Eilian had bounded furiously ahead, impatient with their lugubrious speed whilst concomitantly cheered by their playfulness; this first, vital proof of the solidity of their love only sparking the young one’s eagerness to come at last to the abode in which their family would soon flourish. Once the talan was indeed sighted through the billowing willow boughs of their garden, the fathers found they could not further keep him leashed. Indeed, once they finally stumbled up the stairs, still so tipsy from the other’s relentless touches that they risked tumbling to the very ground before them and writhing on the spot, twas only when Eilian’s shrieks of delight finally popped their bubble of mutual entrancement that Elrohir had deigned to take note of his surroundings. 

As he immediately drew away to gape, awestruck, at the so very homely house constructed with his every care in mind, in heart, he had missed the proud, humbled look that overtook Legolas’ usually composed features. He had been too astonished by the magnitude of the gift his archer so earnestly presented to them to even speak a tribute to him. He could only wander, quietly trembling, from room to room, as Legolas bashfully elaborated on peculiarities in his design, though honestly Elrohir had not absorbed many of these distinctions upon first viewing. Only the discovery of the little one’s bedchamber had truly woke him from his near catatonic shock, as no parent could remain impassive in the face of his child’s weeping for joy. Indeed, Eilian had been initially paralyzed by his first sight of the incredible room. Similar to his initial trepidation over the horse figurines, he had asked Legolas again and again if it was in fact he who was slated to live there. Legolas, to his eternal credit, had hoisted Eilian into his arms and had patiently explained every aspect to the child, with the toy chest as the piece de resistance. Only then did the elfling break out of his stupor, diving into the chest’s contents with such rabid fascination that Elrohir had had to step out for some air, lest his son be frightened by the florid emotion on his face. 

Even now, after he and Eilian had bathed in the huge, leonine tub, been wrapped in tranquil-colored robes of the finest Haradin cloth, and had allowed Legolas to dotingly groom them, Elrohir could not still quite admit to himself the splendor of his good fortune, that this palace of comforts housed his dear family and that one so long tormented as he belonged within. Yet Legolas had done everything to inspire faith, trust, and security within him; he would not tarry in showering his constant archer with all the jewels his heart had so longly encased. Indeed, as he stole across the shimmering mithril bridge, he felt so ripe with love for his golden one, so bountiful of heart that he must immediately give of his most sacred self to the one who had dared, fought, and won him. On the altar of their future wedding bed, he would bequeath himself to his most honored beloved, who deserved nothing more than his ultimate surrender to their blessed union. 

Yet the vision that greeted him upon his slipping into their bedchamber was a simple one, though tinged with a daunting sensuality. A diaphanous sarong twisted around his lank waist, Legolas had evidently just emerged from the bathing closet, his body still streaming from the sultry waters. He was a vision of elven masculinity unchallenged in all of Arda, his lithe frame betraying lean, sinuous strips of muscle, his graceful movements simmering with indisputable virility, his generous, nearly-lethal endowment no longer restrained by a loincloth which dissimulated androgyny. His inner confidence, his supreme control over even the most incidental motion only heightened the potency of his affect on his lover, similar to the way he inspired the loyalty of his guard. His devastating poise and his deadly acuity struck deep within those who sought to impress him; he was far more than the pristine beauty the casual suitor might dismiss him as, though his ethereal fairness did its share to liquefy one’s innards when in his immaculate presence. Elrohir suddenly felt the impulse to bow before him, to subjugate himself before one of such golden beatitude, this magnificent, masterful, enrapturing elf that somehow abased himself to love *him* alone, this lion-heart that sought to bind with him eternally.

He was at once so wretched with love for him that he felt faint, so needful of joining with him that he was nearly drunk on the fumes of his effulgent soul flame. 

“Does he slumber, at last?” Legolas inquired, his amusement plain. “I admit, I feared you had absconded for places unknown, you were so long in tiring him.” Elrohir had been so enthralled by the sight of him that he had not even marked when their eyes had met. Yet even as Legolas beckoned him forth, he could not form a proper answer, only segue into the stronghold of his arms, towards those luring, radiant eyes. “Elrohir?” 

A pregnant moment passed, during which he closely examined the darkling elf for signs of distress, effects of sickness. Yet Elrohir’s face shone like an ocean’s pearl, gleaming with its own, inner enlightenment. 

“Ever have I loved you, dearest one,” the elf-knight suddenly confessed, his eyes alight with abject reverence. “I am the greatest fool in Arda to have wasted so many, precious years of our togetherness caught in my own web of selfishness, of needless provisions, whilst our love was nearly broken by my heartless abuses. Forgive me, melethen. Forgive me my blindness, unconscionable fears-“ 

“Hush,” Legolas insisted, pressing their brows together, ghosting warm breaths over his cheeks to soothe him. “Hush, brave one. Tis long forgiven. I will not have my beloved so abused, moren vain, not even by his own tongue.” 

Yet Elrohir did not heed his words, but continued through his own manner of repentance. 

“Twas earnestly begun, this I might concede,” he mused, repeatedly brushing his fingers over the archer’s scalp and stroking them through his gossamer mane. “I sought only to conserve your innocent heart from what I deemed would be irreparable damage. You were a wood-elf, bound for the most imperiled glory of which I had ever heard tell, I was the son of a house so ignoble in your Adar-King’s eyes that he would never give you up without undue torment, which was bourn out so painfully, so many years later. Yet by then I could not deny the stirring of my dormant heart. I was so ruined with love for you that I could not reason why you would abandon me for a life of misery, of stricture and of ridiculous expectation. Twas not my naneth’s passing that hardened me, Legolas, but your departure that fateful morn. Though tis no fault of yours for aspiring to the honor for which you were begot, but my own, for being so absolute in my affections.”

“Nay,” Legolas objected. “Nay, melethron, I will not allow you to shoulder all the blame. I knew well the state of affairs I abandoned upon my leave-taking. I was not ignorant of the tenor of your devotion, nor of its tremulousness, I simply… I gambled with our love, with its ardor and its strength. I thought you could bear through my absence, misjudged how fiercely you were already bound to our relations, so when calamity struck so sharply… I did not truly comprehend what had severed us apart.” 

“I allowed myself to grow so weak-willed,” Elrohir berated himself. “I wanted you to shake me out of my despair, to seize me up and to claim me for your own, to banish the shadows that swathed me in such relentless desolation with the sheer luminosity of your love. I was so lost in the wilds of sorrow, so enfeebled by tragic circumstance that I could not rightly communicate what I so craved for. Your loving. Your heart, to shelter me. Through the endless years of our tenuous friendship, I purposely exiled any notion of deeper affection from my heart, until my fear for your safety on the quest, my age-old regard for your goodly nature, expressed itself in base physicality. I could not help how I savaged you, twas the only way I knew how to tell you of my… my…” 

“Love,” Legolas finished for him, still eager to dissuade him from prolonging this arduous conversation, as necessary as Elrohir might sense it to be. “The love you bear, the love you have ever bourn. I know it, star-rider. I feel it surge through every pulse of your heart. Now let us be done with these bleak confessions, melethen. Let us indulge this newly forged love of ours…” 

Though dizzied by the rather distracting kiss Legolas softed over his pouty lips, even one so roused as he would not be deterred. 

“Not before I tell you, my dear, golden one, my Legolas,” Elrohir swore his troth. “How the sight of you stabs to the very core of my soul, how your beauty sunders me, how deeply I cherish every moment, fraught or friendly, of our togetherness, how I believe there is no spirit in the world entire as sterling as your very own. How in our arid tent on the last night of our expected lives, I should not have failed you. I should have told you what has been hidden in my heart since that starry eve when a woodland stag trumped a peak-soaring falcon, that you have ever been the most glorious creature in my acquaintance and, should Mandos seek to spirit me away to his gloomy halls of waiting, I would hold fast against even his crushing grip until I last beheld those adoring eyes of yours, until I saw the pure flame of your love shining there. If I am sick, then tis with love of you, Legolas, with need of your touch, with want of your heart’s devotion…” Even as his archer seized him up in an urgent, impassioned grasp, drenched his mouth with luscious, lurid kisses, still Elrohir bleat on, the mewling declarations spilling from him like the violent rush of a river over falls. “I love you, my heart, my eternity… I love you, my one… my only one… forevermore…”

Elrohir shivered as he was spread over the coverlet, but Legolas had waited too long for this supreme pleasure to waste it in haste. After peeling off his sarong and stripping the darkling elf of his robe, he stood, reverent, above his splayed beloved, as the mingled course of lust and love flowed vertiginously through him. Elrohir drew in calming, cleansing breaths, letting the scorch of Legolas’ eyes upon him boil the very blood in his veins. He was further fired by the musky, fecund scent of deepest woods that permeated the room, the sheen of sweat that enhanced every sculpted curve of the archer’s primed form. When Legolas finally stalked over him, then smoothed their slick, satin skins together, he was so bliss-drunk he thought he might loose consciousness entirely.

Yet this peerless agony had only just begun. With the expert touch of one who had exactingly mapped out every delicate inch of him, Legolas set about exploring this sensate terrain anew, tensing him as finely as a well-strung bow for that first, blistering release. Before long, a becoming chain of purple bruises adorned him; strung around his neck, blooming around his red-bitten nipples, fading down to the pool of his navel – lapped dry of his essence by a ravenous tongue, then teething at his nearly violet thighs. By the time that petal-prim mouth was laving worshipfully at his spuming engorgement, he was howling out his approval like a warg in heat, such that his subsequent expending actually doused his lover’s throaty chuckles quiet. 

“Elbereth, but you are voluble this eve,” Legolas rasped, as he lay his spinning head on Elrohir’s sodden stomach. Those lovely fingers were still stroking over his scalp, so sweetly he almost wanted to kiss his crown. He’d thought he could hold fast through the suckling, but the darkling elf had proved so succulent that he was presently too tight-swollen to take him with the leisurely pace he’d hoped for. A bit of teasing might ease the tension some, if not give his sense-blotted mind time to conjure some sexy alternative to drenching the lower folds of the coverlet with a sticky fringe of seed. “Though I broach no objection to declaring ourselves to my people, I had imagined a less salacious scenario.” 

Elrohir snickered warmly, then replied: “We might as well begin their lessons with suitable pomp. Twill not be long before they stumble upon us, grunting and groping in some forgotten glade, so twould be well if they accustomed themselves soonest to the warning signs. Or, rather, warning sounds.” 

“Yet there are tender ears that might catch our raw tune,” Legolas reminded him, as he crawled back over him. He soon found himself thrown onto his backside, with a flint-eyed peredhel routing about the pungent clefts of his arms. 

“Then we must strive to convince him of our loving tone,” Elrohir schooled him, before tonguing the dank hollow so scandalously that the archer cursed aloud. The elf-knight judged this oath with a bedeviled smirk. “Perfection.” He then set about nipping and roughing this sensitive area so voraciously, that Legolas could barely catch his breath to moan. His bollocks were cupped, squeezed in time with those snarling culls, which soon had him begging to be stroked, quick and braising. 

Elrohir did not disappoint, mauling his scarlet member until he spent in a pearly arc. When this was spoon-fed to him by two glistening fingers, Legolas became incensed with desire. In a flash, he rolled his darkling love onto his back, captured his mouth in a thick, smoldering kiss. He did not relent as he pet, flattered, and caressed him, until every stretch of his skin was lovingly attended to. Once Elrohir was utterly boneless under his doting ministrations, the archer gazed into his brimming eyes, perceived naught but the most crude emotion therein. He knew, then, that no balm nor salve was needed, that Elrohir wanted them to burn, honestly, erotically, no glutinous oil easing his passage within, as none had ease their tortured path without. 

He entered him with the utmost care, sinking into that velvet heat as if luxuriating in a steamy bath; his adoring eyes never wavering from that giving, gracious face. Once fully sheathed, he held long in that sacred core, as their soul flames fused into one, glorious plume. They felt hot, and bright, and ecstatically whole, felt the rapture of true oneness. 

Of the loving that ensued, little could improve upon the overwhelming bliss of that moment, not even the sobbing climax that shook the very boughs of the tree that berthed them, nor the effluent affections with which they coddled each other in the aftermath of their coupling. 

They were resolved, at long last, to a hard-won eternity. 

* * *

The gauze of sunlight that streamed around their bed like a maiden’s tulle veil swathed them in soft, shimmery light. The heavenly aura washing their skin with such a gaudy sheen that one might be forgiven for mistaking them for two pearls on the spongy tongue of an oyster. Yet as flattering as Anor’s blithe radiance was, Legolas feared the later, noontime scorch such that he snaked a hand through the drapery cord and pulled with utmost gentility, so as not to disturb his still dozing beloved. A diaphanous canopy spread overtop their bed, diffusing the light into a soft blue glow, also allowing his crimson-tinged eyes to better appreciate the lank, limber peredhel body so languidly spread over him. 

Indeed, his resplendent lover fit to him snug as an undersized bedroll, his appendages tucked in tight as a military bunk: face buried in the clammy slope of his neck, hands clinging to the back of his shoulders, arms dug under his sides, their legs in a knotty tangle. The downy press of skin on baking skin massaged his every muscle into absolute bonelessness, though the elf-knight’s lightness did stir a tremor of regret within. Yet only their togetherness would truly mend his ailing love, a remedy Legolas was only too eager to inflict upon him as often as he deemed necessary. While their bodies luxuriated in the quiet contentment of the morning after lovemaking, their rekindled soul flames had not yet dimmed from their constant, nourishing conflagration. If ought, twas for this that Elrohir clung so ardently, even unconscious, to his doting archer, his famished spirit feeding on Legolas’ warmth and affection. Already their loving had scrubbed a healthy rose where once there was but a dusting of ash, twould be no time at all before their energetic routine and their rabid nights groomed the thin body atop him into fine sculpted musculature anew. 

A recurrent, purring sound tickled up his neck when he began to smooth reverent strokes down his lover’s exposed backside. Though he was thankful for just the chance to admire his elf-knight in deep, sated repose, he would not be completely satisfied until he coddled him with the most explicit care. As his caressing touch roamed over blade wings, spine ridges, vast plains of satiny skin and twin pillows of plush buttocks, the shaft nestled in the shallow between their navels stiffened with nascent potency. Legolas could think of no greater gift of gratitude to his darkling one for the bliss of their unexpected reunion than to wake him to slow, indulgent loving, for him to tint his first dawn in their new home with a scarlet hue. 

In the early years of their tenure as longtime lovers, mornings were a lively affair. In the prime of adolescence both were eminently rousable, such that they often brought each other to hasty, giddy release three or four times before even dressing. Legolas all too fondly recalled being woken by a possessive Noldo greedily swallowing his maleness down, if he had not himself tempted Elrohir to stir through the skilled deployment of similar tactics. This would oft be followed by a raucous grind, if not in the bed itself then on the way to the bathing chamber, which had itself been the site of more than a few impulsive, yet furious takings. One might had thought that, once cleansed, both would have been more respectful of the other’s pristine appearance, but they would have ruinously erred. Oft they could barely string their breeches, so moved had they been by their co-conspirator’s comeliness, which had then prompted said conspirator to fondle them rather ruthlessly, until they could do naught but grapple for a cup into which to spurt. In those halcyon days, their sexual frolics knew no bounds nor etiquette, when within the confines of their bedchamber. 

Legolas wished he could acknowledge that, after his naneth’s slaying, their early hours groping had taken on a more civilized tone, but that would be a glaring falsehood. Though ostensibly matured through the millennia that separated these two eras of their age-spanning liaison, not to mention cowed by recent tragedy, their love of swift, braising spendings before life overswept them had not abated one iota. They had been, alternatively, either more wicked in their provocations or more indulgent in their pace, but neither could honestly confess to temperance. Not when the very sight of Elrohir squeezing a moist cloth over his nethers had spurred him to take the peredhel with only his tongue as love-implement. Not when the succoring act of spooning had so often lead to being speared by an adamant erection. Not when, rendered witless by the fervor of the previous night’s carousing, they had forced themselves to spend until utterly delirious in frantic pleasuring contests, the more interactive the better. While Legolas did not necessary wish to tarnish the memory of those heady times by unduly coercing their resurrection, nor did he believe the couplings of their current union needed to be quite so relentlessly casual, he certainly cherished the easygoing charm of those morning rituals and understood how beneficial some playful tenderness was to the sustenance of their love. 

Yet just as he began to wonder if he was fooling himself in thinking they could restrict their lustiness, once unleashed, to a single, invigorating encounter each morn, he spied a blatant reason for the scarcity of such revels through his east view window. Their little woodland sprite had risen with the dawn, had been lured by the siren call of the trees, and had crawled out onto his railed perch to commune with his newfound friends. He was presently reclined against the gnarled bark of the trunk, his face reverent with rapture and his eyes glassy as he completely attuned himself to their ancient song. Twas the sweetest, most heartening sight Legolas had drank in through untold years of patience, of waiting to be joined by those he held so dear as to be humbled by their worth. Exhaling a sigh of utter contentment, he finally let himself absorb the piercing fact that his peace had finally come. 

“Is he not the most endearing creature Elbereth ever imagined?” Elrohir murmured into his ear, before nipping a kiss beneath his lobe. “Nearly as lovely as your golden self, melethen.”

Legolas felt the body in his loose embrace flex and stretch, then settle into the cradle of his arms. The darkling elf laid his head on his chest, cheek hot-pressed to his breast and face turned to better observe his elfling. The archer brushed lax, lissome fingers through his tousled ebony mane; the elf-knight cottoned to the soothing rhythm like a cat to petting. 

“I marvel still at how pure a wood-elf he tirelessly proves himself,” Legolas remarked. “Brutalized by crude mortals at the most crucial of ages, reared in sage Imladris by peredhil, and yet perfectly at ease with his Silvan nature. A child of peace, if any there was.” 

Elrohir emitted a rambling groan of accordance, his eyelids drooping to half-mast. 

“Tis perilous, your silken skin,” he mumbled appreciatively. “Tempting one back to dreamland.” 

“Sleep, if you require it, melethen,” Legolas encouraged him, inwardly cursing himself for drawing his enfeebled love out of such a remedial repose. “By his vacant visage, the pen-neth is well distracted, and will be for a longly while.” 

“Aye, he is good for hours yet,” Elrohir snickered, then pushed up onto his elbows with all the speed of action and clarity of vision of one who had entirely cast off sleep some while ago. “As am I.” 

Legolas had not time to gasp before a luscious tongue stole between his gaping lips, but chuckled warmly into the kiss that ensued. For all his initial ardor, Elrohir set a leisurely pace, in no hurry to quit their reunion bed when there were lengths of sultry archer to explore. Indeed, he did not neglect a sweep, cleft, or hollow of that sinuous frame, but worshipped every swath of skin with plumy lips and with fevered tongue, until there was but a proud, purple shaft to suckle. Yet even this he pleased with exquisite slowness, as if an act of intent sensuality for him. Legolas’ climax came not as a jolt, nor as a blast, but as the sundering crest of wave upon violent wave of feeling flowing through him. The liquefying, orgasmic sensation was prolonged past forbearance by the steamy application of tongue to buttocks crease, then thickened into a course of molten lava by an excruciatingly serene penetration. 

For an endless, incensing moment, Elrohir held himself within, whispering his breathy, erotic compliments into the trembling peak of his ear. In the carnal cyclone possessing his sentient mind, these were but undecipherable susurrations, his body so sublimely wrought that he was numb to the bewitching poetry of even such wicked, worthy troths. Yet he cursed aloud when Elrohir did commence his gentle, glutinous thrusts, the last thread of his will snapping wildly as a bow-string. Before long, he was adrift on the ravaging tide, rendered utterly listless by the drowning surge of his elf-knight’s most adoring passions. For a time, he entirely ceased to be a physical entity, soaring through the spectral climes of his spiritual plain, floating lithe as a slip of cloud on the ether of eternity.

The scorch of Elrohir’s seed within him branded him firmly back into consciousness, the sag of his spent body over him a visceral reminder of the beautiful soul that had loved him so incredibly. If his elf-knight could conjure up such a celestial tempest of sensual pleasures on such a dulcet morn, Legolas wondered with slow-amplifying awe what exultations awaited them on their binding night. Twas quite comprehensible that Elrohir had been so cautious with the bequeathing of his heart’s love, if such precious, inimitable, and extravagant couplings were to be enjoyed on the occasion of every single indulgence. Legolas suddenly felt even more fortunate that his beloved chose to share such intimacies with him alone, that his adamant regard had earned them. 

Yet, just moments later, Elrohir was snugly berthed anew, his sweat-sodden skin the only testament to their gorgeous loving. Twas indeed, in Legolas’ woozy estimation, another sterling morn with his beloved. 

* * * 

One Month Later

The skitter and scrape of twiggy talons across the bird trough roused him from the downy climes of sleep, as did the peachy aura of the rising dawn through the window upon which they were perched. Shimmering fletches of gossamer hue fringed their tawny plumage, though their heads, beaks, and bodies were but shadows against the sunlight. The lackadaisical breeze swayed his bed-basket in a soothing rhythm, but barely had his eyes fluttered open and he was raring for the day to begin. 

Yet Eilian was not so eager as to bound straight out of bed. The twittering of the birds, the tittering of the leaves in the wind, and the low hum of the woodlands about told him the forest was relaxing into the summer day; he could do no better than to listen to its sage counsel. The wise woods, and especially the personable tree that berthed their talan, had sung to him from the very second of his arrival here in the south, as if they had been awaiting him through all the long years of torment under the Shadow’s rule. His curiosity had only been further piqued, as well as his soul assuaged, when they had sung him the ballad of his short life; they had instinctively known of his anguished past, of his later fortune, and of his present, joyful circumstance. Indeed, twas as if they had been grown specifically to be his guardians, with such paternal pride did they dote upon him. While he did still love the more elegant trees of Imladris, twas in these kindly woods that he felt most at home and had made the most friends about the forest. 

There was, for instance, the ornery oak by the banquet hall, one of the most ancient trees in the forest, but also the one who gave the best advice. The entire compound was visible from his highest boughs, as such little escaped his note. He oft knew what you would ask before you knew it yourself, but always dispensed with counsel in a grandfatherly manner, which gave you courage to tread the noble path. The elusive elms by the river could be quite imperious, as they were some of the most attractive and well placed trees in the wood, their roots glutted on the fertile mulch of the banks. They would snicker at him as he jounced about with his friends or his family, often accompanied by a chorus of birds their branches always bore, but despite their vanity they were cool, soft barked, and often let him dive into the river from their lower boughs. The blowsy willows in the garden were forever giggling about some gossipy nonsense; if they were not so fun to play with, and so fond of him, he would perhaps seek shelter elsewhere, as agreeable as it was to laze within their nest of tousled branches. His best friend was their own tree, the only mallorn in the wood, who was young, lively, and completely enamored of the realm, like himself. He spent endless hours out on his perch, harmonizing with his friend’s tippling melody and enthralled by the wild splendor of the view. He did not know what he would have done, nor what he had done thus far, without the fraternity of this merry wood. Inter-elfling relations were still a troubled aspect to his development, but the trees helped even that, as Ithildir and some others had become fascinated by his gift, asking him to teach them the most familiar songs. He was only too glad of this, and so had made some elven friends, too. 

A faint, fervent groaning sounded out from the main suite of their extensive talan. Though his mallorn’s tone turned more reassuring, Eilian was by now long accustomed to the throaty, desperate moans that broke from his Adar’s bedchamber; indeed, it had been the tree itself who had initially told him of the happy tenor of the groans and that his fathers made such frantic noises because they were celebrating their love. At first, he had thought his Ada-Hir’s sickness had got worse and that they did not want him to know, like elders often did, but then he had seen how smiley his Ada would be the next day, so he knew the mallorn had been right all along. Now, it cheered him to hear the happy groans, whether from their bedchamber, from the garden when they were relaxing in one of their ‘private times’, from the riverside if they went for an evening swim, or from Ada-Las’ study in the common hall. If ought, he worried some on the night when he did not hear the happy groans, but the mallorn had informed him that they cannot celebrate every night or else they would get tired of it. He agreed, as long as Ada-Hir looked hardy the next morning, as he never failed to do. 

He had even become shrewd enough to time his interruptions until after the happy groans had faded away. If he waited just right, he could often sneak into their bedchamber and cuddle up with them, which he found he liked best of all. Both his Adar would be rosy, and sweaty, and just a little giddy, and that was the time they were most affectionate with him. They would wrap themselves up into a snug little cocoon, with him so cozy in the middle, caught in the flow of love between his two fathers. His Adar were ribald teases in these moments, of him, of each other, no one was spared! Though he did not always understand what was so funny, he liked the secret looks his fathers would shoot between themselves, as it often meant that they were plotting to tickle him. This was also the best time to say if he wanted anything; not that they often denied him, but they would both listen with rapt attentiveness and discuss the situation in his presence, so that he had a better concept of how they came to their decision. He found he just liked watching them talk. The intimacy and the emotions that passed between them were intriguing to him, a glimpse of the adult world he still struggled to make sense of. 

They had explained to him the different kinds of love, of course, and while he did recognize most of these, the love between bonded elves was still somewhat confusing to him. He readily witnessed how the affection between the couples in his immediate environment differed from the connection he felt to his friends or to his fathers, or how the relationship between his father and his twin was not at all the same as the one between Elladan and Glorfindel, but he could not yet wrap his mind around how one fell into that kind of love. His fathers spoke of destiny, of the Valar’s will in their togetherness, but also of much opposition that kept them apart for so long. He could often feel the fearsome power of the love between his Ada-Hir and his Ada-Las, saw well enough the ravages that their separation had wrecked upon his darkling father, but even these two simple observations seemed at odds with the stories they had told him about their growing up. He had come to long for this binding they all kept whispering about, if only to know what it was for certain. He knew it was some sort of ceremony, but for what purpose? Why was it different from the nightly celebrations that caused the happy groans? If they were one day going to go back to Imladris, then what would stop Ada-Hir from being sick again? Even the trees were at a loss to explain these subtleties to him, which only sparked further anxiety within him. He wanted his fathers to stay as happy as they were now forever. He did not mind going back to Imladris someday, but he wanted Ada-Las to come with them! Most of all, he wanted them to be a real family, for good and for always, as he had ever been promised. 

In the near distance, the happy groans had died away. As softly as doves huddled against the cold, he could hear his fathers cooing to each other, most probably planning out their day. After worming his way into a seated position, he waited for the communal sigh of deep contentment to sound, sign that he was welcome in their bedchamber. It tarried longer than he had anticipated, so he made haste, hopping down from his bed, adjusting his night shirt so that he could run freely, then darting over the bridge adjoined to the main talan. A mischievous smile quivered his lips as he peered around the edge of their doorway, which had mysteriously been left ajar. Ada-Hir and Ada-Las were not spooned in their usual embrace, but were no less entwined as they reclined against the back board, a fast-breaking tray on the night stand, two steaming cups of tea precariously balanced in saucers on the sheets beside them. 

Eilian emitted a squeak of disappointment at not being able to snuggle in with them, which caught Ada-Las’ ear. With a sly wink, he was beckoned forth. While Ada-Hir cleared the teacups and snatched a bowl of berries from the tray, Ada-Las prepared a little nook for him between them. He luxuriated in the swarm of kisses, caresses, and enveloping hugs that descended upon him, such lovely proximity almost as satisfying as their usual warm cocoon. Ada-Hir and Ada-Las were both already dressed in their lounging robes, though their skin was yet flush the telltale rose and their eyes sparkled with mutual adoration. Ada-Hir was almost back to his old self, perhaps even a more improved version, as Eilian now rarely saw him sullen, or pained, or frighteningly quiet, such as in years passed. Indeed, he was much wilier than before, up to tricks even his son sometimes scolded him for, though mostly when they were aimed at him. Overall, he liked this version of his Ada-Hir most of all; healthy, merry, and enamored of their rich life. 

He also understood the principal cause of his Ada’s rejuvenation, who he himself adored past all temperance. Ada-Las may only be his adopted father, but their hearts were more twinned, at times, than even those of the brethren princes of Imladris. He was the most giving elf Eilian knew; his play was the best, his stories were the best, and his imagination was the absolute best in all the lands of Arda. Even if Ada-Hir could somehow do without him, Eilian could not! He had come to despise the days when Ada-Las had to attend to some governmental issue, for he was so long in the common hall that they rarely had time to spend alone. Not that he did not enjoy the time they shared with Ada-Hir or felt that his primary father was not a wonderful companion, but his private play with Ada-Las had become very special to him. He did not like to go without it for too many days in a row. 

As he scarfed down his berries, his Adar chatted quietly between themselves, though the constant stream of pats, pets, and tender touches did not for a moment abate. He had been silently working towards a question that had occurred to him some days before, but the time just never seemed right to pose it. He had somehow intuited that it was truly none of his business and he did not like to impose a disrespectful query upon his fathers, as he was too grateful for their care to ever dream of being disobedient, but then they had never forbidden him from asking a question before… he simply knew this one might not be so welcome. The mallorn had encouraged him to voice it, and the tree was often right in these things, but he was still very reluctant to court their displeasure, especially now when he was in his favorite place. Yet that was the very rub of the matter, for where else but in this beloved place could he be so brazen? 

Ada-Las suddenly helped him out quite a bit by soliciting an opinion of his own. 

“You are very quiet on such a pleasant morn, pen-neth,” Legolas remarked, dropping a kiss to his crown. “Was your sleep troubled?” 

“Nay, twas well, Ada,” he replied, though took his chance to curl closer to him. “Sparrows came to wake me.” 

“Ada-Hir and I were just speaking of a short trip we might care to undertake,” he continued, but Eilian immediately sense the hesitation in his tone. “The Queen has invited us to the White City for midsummer revels. Tis the anniversary of her binding to King Elessar, as you know.” 

“They are all so eager to see you again,” Elrohir chimed in, which only gave the elfling greater pause. “We did not stop there but a three night, before. They wish to know some of their little nephew, before he grows into the fine elf you will eventually become, lass dithen.” 

“Tis the City of Men?” Eilian asked, though he knew the answer well enough. “Why can we not stay here, with the trees? They will miss me too much. Why can they not come here? Tis nicer, here, in the forest. Why must we go there? There are no trees, there. Only the snobby white tree, who sings mannish songs. I do not like it.” 

He did not miss the weary look his Ada-Las shot his Ada-Hir, who nodded sympathetically. 

“Do not trouble yourself, sweetling,” Legolas soothed him. “We will remain, if you do not like the city.”

“I have some business there,” Elrohir admitted to him, pressing in closer to lean on his beloved’s shoulder. “But I will not be long away. Only a day or so, and I will return.” 

“Fear not, lass dithen,” Legolas promised him. “I will remain with you.” While he was not so pleased about his Ada-Hir journeying to the man city all alone, the thought of having Ada-Las all to himself for two whole days was deliciously tempting. As if possessed by powers far beyond his station, his Ada-Las then proceeded to read his very mind. “You must think on what fun we might have together. Tis a golden chance to do what we always wished for our private time. Perhaps we might ride to the eastern fields with Lathron and Ithildir, and set up a camp for a night?” 

“I am jealous already,” Elrohir sniffed, though even Eilian perceived the theatricality of the remark. Yet the kiss he planted on Legolas was no performance, nor was his following complaint made with naught but the utmost sincerity. “Twill be a lonely night in the Citadel, without your arms to berth me, melethen. I pray Estel has reserved some fine vintage for the banquet. I feel the need to imbibe will be fierce.” 

“Elladan will surely aid you in this endeavor,” Legolas chuckled, trailing the kiss with one of his own. “I hear Arwen has placed some restrictions on his and Glorfindel’s interactions the night they host the Haradin party.” 

“Then perhaps tis indeed well that you will not accompany me,” Elrohir amended. “As I could not honestly keep from scandalizing their guests, with your golden charms seducing me to mischief.” 

His Ada-Las shook with laughter, then, but soon nuzzled his beloved’s neck, murmuring something about how a wood-elf could teach a peredhel some things about mischief. As he was both a wood-elf and a peredhel, loath as he was to cop to the latter, Eilian was rather confounded by the comment. Yet in the face of this too-loving display, his urgent question reared itself anew; he saw no alternative but to voice it, at last. 

“Adar?” he queried, forcing them to ease apart. They were instantly so intent upon him, that he could not quite hold their inquisitive stares. He retreated into the bashfulness that characterized him, but was brave enough to finish his thought. “Are you in… in the binding love?” 

“You know well that we are, ioneth,” Elrohir calmly responded. “Why do you ask this?” 

“Ithildir says that we will only be a real family when you bind,” Eilian cautiously replied, still somewhat fretful over the cheek of his request. “When will that be?” 

If Ada-Hir and Ada-Las were upset by his question, they hid it well. They could not, however, completely conceal their surprise at his boldness. 

“Tis our love that makes us a family, pen-neth,” Legolas answered at once. “Not any binding troth. Your Ada and I do intend to bind ourselves, for this assures our eternal love and is a show of gratitude to the Valar for blessing us so.” 

“In all honesty, we have not spoken of a rightful time,” Elrohir elaborated. “But do not concern yourself over this. Twill come sooner than you think, once we are decided, and until such a time there is no force in Arda that could part us. We are bonded after our own fashion, through the goodwill of our hearts. And you will forever be our most precious one, bonded or no.” 

Both his fathers took pains to coddle him, then, with such giving warmth that he could not help but be heartened. He relished each moment he could linger so closely to them, in the heady flow of love that had ever coursed between them. 

* * *

Upon a clear, starry midnight, Legolas sat in casual admiration of the pale summer moon. As woodland owls stalked field mice through the forest glades, the wind rustled the high grass that bordered the tranquil river, whose gentle trickle had soothed his adventure-addled elflings to sleep. They had staked camp by the easternmost tributary that snaked into the Ithilien forest, near enough to the confluence of Sirith and Anduin to visit the following morn, when the little ones could watch the trade ships rudder through the divergent flows as they sailed up from the coast. 

Yet his own pinched heart could not be assuaged by the dulcet stream, not when cleft of its mate, who no doubt passed a similarly forlorn night in the regal bedchambers of the Citadel. He had not thought that such a fleet moment of separation would impress so weightily upon him; that his breaths would come arduously short even as he rode away from his beloved, that he would fumble about the hinterlands on unsteady feet, that his lembas would taste of straw and his wine would prematurely bitter, though none in his company had remarked upon a similar phenomenon. That the ache for Elrohir would be such that he would toss about restlessly until exasperated with himself, even after a day chasing the most energetic elflings in all of elfdom. That even in awe of this beauteous midnight, he would not be able to tare his stubborn mind from endless comparisons to a certain elf-knight’s starlit graces. 

He was, in essence, an elf in the blazing thrall of love. 

Indeed, he was so fixed upon distracting himself from his pangs that he did not mark Lathron’s approach until his brother was plunked down beside him, slapping a fond hand on his startled back, then chuckling with a mixture of taunt, bemusement, and self-recognition. Lathron had certainly been known to moon after Erestor during the millennium they were apart, so Legolas felt a small measure of consolation. Yet he was himself shocked by the viciousness of his reaction, to how absolutely vital his beloved’s presence had become to his wellness, and for this he was grateful for the reassurances that would certainly come soon. He had never been troubled by the feeling of their love before, merely by its unrequited nature. Now that his heart had finally been answered, a whole host of fears had reared up within him, beginning with the sight of Elrohir so emaciated by fading and certainly not finished with these first, fearsome signs of grief within himself. Yet even as he craved his elf-knight’s touch, he was balefully reminded of the quarrel they had nearly parted on, before Elrohir had sought him out to mend them in spirit, if not to reconcile their difference over the matter itself, which would not be so casually resolved. Even though Elrohir had conceded to Legolas’ wishes, he could not help but doubt the rightness of his own desires when faced by his lover’s disappointment; the reason behind his opposition had been earnest, but even such earnestness paled in comparison to Elrohir’s desolation over the delay forced upon their happiness. 

“Lathron,” he impulsively ventured, though he knew his brother was waiting on his overture. The elder had always had the keenest sense of when Legolas’ heart was ailing. The archer had not forgot that twas his brother who had urged him to declare himself to Elrohir upon their naneth’s slaying, to remain in Imladris and to bind with the elf he adored. By ignoring his wisdom, Legolas had set about a course that nearly led to the snuffing of his own spirit. His counsel was true, then, and it would be ever so. “How do you and Erestor reconcile your opinions, if they happen to… diverge?” 

“Have you quarreled with Elrohir?” Lathron inquired, his surprised blatant. “You parted so endearingly.” 

“We have not quarreled so much as…” Legolas found himself at a loss as how to best characterize the situation. “We have come to an impasse, over a decision of some import. He would move quickly, while I… I wish to be more conservative.”

“Tis quite a role reversal,” Lathron commented wryly. “You are, if I am not mistaken, oft the elf for swift resolution, while Elrohir is more often thoughtful.” 

“Aye, tis uncommon,” Legolas shrugged. “But this switching of sides does not change the fact that we are in opposition.”

“Fair enough,” Lathron acknowledged, putting his mind to the task. “If tis a matter of some import, then I must dig back to our earliest times together, for we have not truly been divided since the summer we first came together, when I was resolved to return to Mirkwood and Erestor all but begged me to remain. You know well enough how that circumstance developed. Needless to say, I am still, these three millennia on, repenting of my youthful madness.” 

“Yet how did the quarrel itself play out?” Legolas asked, fishing for a tale to pass the time as much as some much needed advice. 

“To understand our division, you must first appreciate the events that led up to it,” Lathron remarked, settling comfortably in to his role as raconteur. “Our disparate levels of experience played an essential part in the proceedings. When I first journeyed to Imladris, for my own tutelage from Master Glorfindel, I was as pure as a pearl. Twas but a year or so past my majority – you were not yet even born, toren – and I had thought myself destined for the usual path of a Mirkwood prince. The first few months did nothing to shake my concept of the world. I flirted with a few maids, had my first sip of wine, but mostly dedicated myself to my apprenticeship in the warring arts. Then, one day, as I was making my way to the stables to exercise my steed, I crossed paths with… with the most astonishing elf I had ever laid eyes upon. Erestor, of course. I fumbled through my greeting as best I could, and he looked quite amused by my blushing. He asked after why I was in Imladris, for he had just returned from a visit to his kin in the Havens, and I stumbled through an explanation. His face was so soft, so welcoming, that I could not help but be drawn to him… until I realized I was standing unconscionably close. To my great astonishment, he invited me that night to a gathering of bards that he was hosting in the Library. He made some aside about how the art of war was not the only one a young elf should be well versed in, to which I could not help but accept. He spirited away after that, and I felt so strange I immediately retired to my bedchamber, which I do not think I had spent time in until that very afternoon. I fretted over my threadbare raiment for hours after, in the hopes of avoiding the tipsy feeling that had overcome me, not to mention my incomprehensible desire to…” 

“Handle yourself?” Legolas suggested, tickled by the tint of rose that even now bloomed upon his brother’s cheeks. “Please, do not spare me the bawdier details, Lathron. Those are the most enticing!!” 

“As you wish,” Lathron agreed, then hastened on. “Verily, I had not the slightest notion of what had possessed me. Even when a set of casual robes, a present from Lord Elrond, were brought by a servant, I could not quell the absolutely rabid excitation within. I even dined in my rooms, as I did not trust myself to behave well at table, and even thought about sending a note of excuse, until Erestor himself came to fetch me. He had worried when I did not present myself at supper, and in any case, he had wondered if I knew the way. I tried to conceal my shaking as we swept through the dim corridors. Before we entered, Erestor caught up my hands and told me not to fret, that I could simply observe the others and that there were many from similar stations as I. The power of his calming presence affected me such that I all but glided into the hall, until I had the misfortune of being introduced to his lover. I do not know if I was more shocked by his gender or by the very fact of his existence. As I observed their affections throughout the night, I struggled to piece myself back together, as my every notion of what constituted a loving relation had fallen completely apart. Indeed, I spent the next few weeks in a fugue. If not for the blade, the stricture of my training, I may very well have drowned myself in the Bruinen. Yet even then, I found my own confusion utterly incomprehensible. The fact of their togetherness did not affect me. I liked maids, had even kissed a few, why should I be bothered if some male elves in Imladris chose to engage themselves in love relations? I was from Mirkwood, was I not? I had my answer one stifling summer day, when it seemed the entire populace had ventured out of doors, even for their intimacies.”

“You came upon them,” Legolas guessed easily. 

“I was transfixed,” Lathron recalled. “He was so gentle, and yet so confident, skilled in pleasuring his partner all while seeming completely maddened by pleasure himself. Even one so green as I instantly recognized that he was a lover of unparalleled finesse, as the rumors I soon after gleaned upon bore out. Yet at that moment, all I wanted was to know him, to experience this rapture for myself.” 

“You must have spent a wretched night,” Legolas noted sympathetically, remembering his own agony whilst waiting out Elrohir’s doubts. 

“And hundreds thereafter,” Lathron smiled softly. “Yet twas only once returned to Mirkwood that I recognized that I was not, after all, a lover of maids. I hotly resented not being exposed to what had been so natural in Imladris, that an entire aspect of the elven way had been denied to us in the name of fecundity. I searched long and hard for signs of similarly minded elves lurking about; I am not proud to say that my first gropings were with them. Yet when we escorted to Imladris, I was still innocent in the true ways of male bodily loving, though I all but lost my head when I learnt through friends that Erestor was unattached. As you know, it did not take long to lure his attentions, nor to lose my cloying innocence. We loved feverishly, voraciously throughout the summer. He himself confessed that he had wanted me upon first sight, that he had been waiting for my return, hoping to court me. He told me he had never felt such a hunger for another as he did in our bed, that my Silvan wildness maddened him, that he had enjoyed lovers before but that if I was not careful, I would claim his heart, as well. Yet sensual pleasures were not all we shared. I had cultivated my intellectual side, since that first exposure to the poetry and literature of our people. We discussed. We debated. We relied on each other for opinions, suggestions, support… until the day came that I had to decide whether I would return to Mirkwood.” 

“I had not realized that you actually considered remaining, that first summer,” Legolas interjected. “I thought there was no question of your return, merely a struggle for Erestor to accept the condition previously set upon your relations.”

“Indeed, I had considered it a foregone conclusion,” Lathron admitted. “For all of his lore and learning, Erestor did not fully appreciate how ingrained the instinct to bow to Mirkwood was in we princes. He thought I understood the necessity of our passion, which I did well enough. It simply never occurred to me to stay, until he proposed such a thing, and then digesting his too-incisive arguments took some time. Yet the influence of five brothers is a force in itself to contravene, even one of Erestor’s intellect, tenacity, and desperation did not succeed. Despite his protests, his begging, his troths and oaths and sobs, I left him. Tis perhaps the single greatest error of my existence, and one I nearly paid for with my life, if not for Elbereth blessing you with such valor, Legolas.” Lathron paused a moment, then shifted tact. “I counseled you so then, toren, and I will counsel you similarly now. Do not tarry in securing your togetherness for eternity. If Elrohir would bind soonest, then concede to his desire. You fought long enough to win him, why will you not claim him, if he is himself willing?” 

“Are my cares so transparent, then?” Legolas sighed, exhausted of worrying, if not enough to sleep. 

“They are writ across your brow in a vivid screed,” Lathron replied, squeezing his shoulder in quiet support of his suffering. “Twould not take a wizard to divine that Elrohir wished to make a formal invitation to his kin upon this recent visit to the City of Kings. Yet you fought to delay your binding. Why? Surely you are not so married to propriety as to insist upon an entire year’s betrothal?” 

“Nay, I care not for formality, as you well know,” Legolas explained. “I merely sought to give our brothers sufficient time to travel down from Mirkwood. I am perhaps a selfish elf, but I would like all of my brothers to see me wed.” 

“Tis rather a large company you seek to summon down,” Lathron considered, though he well understood the impetus behind the wish. He had been fortunate enough to have all of his brothers at his own binding, but then their family had not been so numerous. “Brothers, wives, children… do you reckon the forest can spare so many of its caretakers? Will Ada-King *allow* so many to depart, when he himself is not invited?” The elder brother visibly held his breath, praying that their father would not, indeed, be asked down. 

“I know not,” Legolas confessed. “But I would inquire, before we resolved to ignore them.” He warmed to the topic, laying out the major points he and Elrohir had battled out. “We wish to bind at midsummer, as this is a precious day to us. Yet they could hardly make their descent within but hours of receiving the invitation, and even if so large a company could ride quickly enough to be here in but four weeks time, they would have to remain awhile. I doubt they could be urged to return before winter, and then what? Mirkwood is without them for a year, perhaps more? Tis little to ask of Elladan and Glorfindel to remain in the south for a year, slightly more to ask to delay our binding, yet tis a great deal we ask them to sacrifice, and just to avoid twelve months deferral.” 

“Are you so resolved to have them?” Lathron inquired, taking great care with his tone. “Even if they *could* come? Would you leave the Mirkwood so unguarded, Ada-King so miserable? Would you make them choose between themselves, if only some could make the journey? At the expense of Elrohir’s contentment, of your own? Legolas… you have both suffered for so long. I have never seen you both so intent, so loving, so committed to your togetherness. Elrohir begins each day raving his love for you and ends each day in the deepest satisfaction he has ever known. Not ten years ago he wanted to quit this life for the fate of men, and now he cannot do enough to prove himself worthy of your regard; hunting for the colony, relishing every chance to aid you in its government, enjoying every fruit of your labor to its fullest. He is slavishly devoted to you, so fearful that he might lose you that he even considered neglecting his duties in Minas Tirith in order to remain by your side. His heart is finally ripe for the picking, and yet you would let it mature for another year! Is he not reason enough to forgo even this necessity? Why wait another instant to make yourselves whole through an eternal bond, when last winter he suffered through the first stages of grief and your binding can fully restore his strengths? There are reasons upon reasons to act now, toren, but only one to delay and a precarious one, at that. For tis not as if none of your brothers will be present…” 

With a pained groan, Legolas covered his face with his hands, his knees folded up to his chest. He had considered all of these options, of course, but only hearing them shot back at him had truly forced him to ingest the realities of the situation, the prime of which was that if he did not bind with Elrohir this very midsummer, then he was perhaps erring as fatally as Lathron almost did that fateful day, so long ago. Legolas had saved his brother, then, twas Lathron’s chance to guide him now. 

At dawn, he would call down a falcon from the high boughs, charge him with a hastily composed writ. Elrohir would not miss his chance to speak with his family, not if Legolas still had breath within him. In but four weeks time, they would be bound. 

Legolas could not help the burst of abject joy that surged within him. 

 

End of Part 8


	9. Chapter 9

Sanctuary Under Shadow

Part Nine

Ithilien, Year 10, Fourth Age

From the very moment of his waking, he knew the most decadent sense of peace that had ever swathed him in its serenity. As he had slid on his bed trousers, splashed his face with water from the basin, then stolen up to the highest boughs of the lush tree that berthed their home, he had moved with the ease and the grace of one centered deep within, who would see the realization of his most delicate, coddled dreams that blissful day. Upon a balmy midsummer afternoon, he would at last be bound to the darkling one who had ever bourn his most sacred heart; his elf-knight, his star-rider, his Elrohir. 

As he perched himself in the prong of a bisected bough, the wind picked up, stirring the branches into a languid sway. His pulse slowed to harmonize with the holy thrum of the forest, humming around him, throbbing within him. He was a wood-elf in his primal element, caretaker of the vibrant lands stretched about him and sower of its flourishing vales. Rich layers of foliage, like reams of the finest cloth, blanketed his ripened realm, a long, emerald train crowned by the gleaming Citadel of the White City, in the distance. The song of his somnolent wood soothed him into repose, his place in the vertiginous cycle of the world soon to be canonized by solemn vow, concretized by the Lady’s blessing; she, the blithe creator who wishes every leaf in his sights into being. In her exquisite eye, she had conjured visions of forest bloomed, of river wild, and of bountiful plain. She had crafted his woodland heart specifically for loving this great land, these green woods. In her starlit image, she had imagined him a warrior prince, a dark beauty of mist and of twilight; wisdom to his spirit, eloquence to his effervescence, as enlivened by his mercurial ways as he was humbled by the wealth of his care. 

This last had been in too-ample evidence over the past weeks of their reunion. Once his waning soul had been renewed by their love’s renaissance, Elrohir had dedicated himself to the soldering of their bond into a relation unbreakable by time, strain, or fate itself. Legolas could not have asked for a more devout partner, in every thing fathomable; from domestic issues to his lordly responsibilities to personal concerns, he was both aided and abetted by one of peerless reason, of effusive heart. Indeed, at present he was not quite sure what he had done previously, without steadfast Elrohir to attend him so thoughtfully and so meticulously. Not that Legolas was helpless without him. He could very well oversee the government of his people, delegate household chores to those best suited to their accomplishment, and master those tasks he particularly enjoyed. Yet he found Elrohir’s good counsel, encouragement, and genial mind quite a boon. 

His peredhel prince had managed Imladris for so long, he was well versed in the plights that still somewhat surprised Legolas in their all-too-common convolution. While he was very cautious not to interfere directly, always leaving his archer to with enough rope to fashion his own knotty solution, he oft underlined points that Legolas had overlooked, suggested alternatives that either resolved him to a similar course or convinced him of his own rightness in the matter. Whether he heeded Elrohir’s advice or rejected his theories outright, he was ever grateful for the relentless support the elf-knight provided him, as well as the much needed release of tension that came after. The ease of these diplomatic interactions had lead Legolas to be even more convinced of Elrohir’s rightness as his chosen mate.

Legolas had learned even more valuable insights into domestic affairs from rapt observance of his darkling one. Elrohir was, without question, a parent of vaulted excellence; intuitive, involved, and patience absolutely personified. Even as their own relationship intensified, he never sacrificed a moment with Eilian. When he could not include their son in some more private activity, he made sure that the elfling was treated accordingly. Yet he was also keenly attuned to the child’s moods, so he knew instinctively when to insist that they delay their pleasures awhile in order to appease their unwieldy one. While he was endlessly sympathetic to Eilian’s difficulties with social interaction, he never let their son grow complacent, ever arranging situations in which his development might progress some. Even Legolas was occasionally skeptical over the success of such contrived circumstance, but he had quickly understood that it was terribly foolish to bet against his elf-knight, as Elrohir eventually brought off each opportunity with typical finesse. 

On the home front, he was even more astonishing. While Legolas had designed and had constructed them a rather luxurious estate, Elrohir had been the one to add more personal touches to their modest abode. From the bottles of unctuous oils and of preferred fragrances that surrounded their bath to the intricate tapestries depicting heroic scenes from their disparate ancestries commissioned for their foyer, from the drying medicinal herbs strung about their kitchen ceiling to the archaic weaponry collection decorating the walls of their shared study, from the tomes of lore drooping the shelves of their simple library to the spice-scented smoke wafting from their bedchamber fire, his darkling prince had made their house his own; every nook gave some reminder of Elrohir’s inhabitance, of his permeation and of his permanence therein. This heartened him such that he oft wandered through his rooms with a lone candle, under the veil of night, with his betrothed cradled in their satin bed, warmed and awed by the very Elrohirian atmosphere of their home. 

In some respects, such as his emotional tending, his beloved was an essential. The bed-play was scorching, to be sure, but beneath the lava rush of even their more carnal impulses streamed an undercurrent of pure, oft inexpressible feeling that frequently left them bereft of speech. Elrohir often fumblingly characterized this as a preternatural sense of belonging, of oneness that only existed for him when their souls were conflagrant, but for Legolas the security of their love was ever-present. He needed only stand at Elrohir’s side to feel protected, satisfied, whole in heart; if they were apart, he did not struggle much to kindle this nourishing heat within him. The true sign of Elrohir’s emotional evolution was in how subtly demonstrative he had become, whether they were alone or in the presence of others. He would no longer hesitate to link arms, clasp hands, or even flutter kisses into the crook of his neck if the occasion warranted such casual affections. If not, then he was forever patting him with chaste, but meaningful touches. 

During one recent audience with a noble from Faramir’s court, when Legolas’ temper had been relentlessly pricked by the duke’s insolence, Elrohir had stealthily nudged the toe of his boot against the plump of the archer’s calf under the negotiating table, to enforce some placidity upon him. While the arrogant knave had nattered on about boundary lines, the elf-knight had somehow schooled his face to be impassive towards the duke, yet compassionate towards Legolas; every glimpse at his beloved had cheered him ridiculously well. By the time they stood to dismiss the cad so that his advisory council might ponder how best to banish him without undue provocation, Elrohir was surreptitiously pressing a soft, supportive hand into the small of his back. The council had mightily disagreed upon how best to act, though the Imladrian prince had not added a word of comment, merely poured the most cooling warmth within him, through a delicate prod to the base of his spine. When they were finally alone, he did not hasten to embrace him, but let Legolas sputter out all his riled objections while massaging his shoulders, then his neck, then his temples. Only when he finally sighed in utter exasperation did Elrohir sink onto his lap, rest their brows together, and whisper his assurances. After a grunt of dissatisfaction, Legolas had quietly beckoned his kisses forth, though he quickly deferred to where he was truly needful as Elrohir nestled his head on his shoulder. His darkling love had fondled him with explicit slowness, murmuring his counsel on the aristocratic matter even as he so gorgeously stroked. Yet Legolas’ arousal was not so easily quenched when his heart was so embroiled in quarrelsome matters, so the elf-knight had been eventually forced to kneel, to finish him with the tongue that so sagely advised him only seconds before. They had curled up in his lordly chair for long moments after, veering their hush conversation towards more frivolous subjects as they caressed each other. That night, in bed, they had revisited the trouble whilst cozied by afterglow, where their newly fertile minds so often devised quite ambitious solutions. In their coupling, Elrohir had allowed himself to be rather elaborately and extravagantly taken, yet another sign of his implicit understanding of his future mate’s indelible desires in the face of unmanageable opposition. 

His love for his elf-knight was by now so deeply ingrained within him, that twas but a formality that they be bound, in body and in spirit. 

A wisp of breeze carried the savory scent of fresh baked wheatcakes up to the heady climes of the treetops. A faint bustle could be perceived about the drowsy wood, here and there a crackle of excitement quavered the air. Though the ceremony itself would be a private affair, the decorum of his office could not be entirely ignored. As such, their binding feast was open to all, as were the revels after. These the family would attend for a short while, before retiring to a protected glade, where they could enjoy themselves without the burden of observance. The force of their affections were such that both Legolas and Elrohir were somewhat concerned about their ability to keep their quite rabid desires suitably leashed; within the bosom of their loved ones, they were free to be as wanton as they cared. As their binding coincided with the culmination of the midsummer festival, the couple doubted any even in Ithilien’s staid population would even note that the royals had secreted themselves away, so soused would they be even at such an early hour. 

Indeed, as their binding day had swiftly approached, their coupling had become - if this was even deemed remotely possible - even more intent, more visceral than before. Each subsequent night they strayed further from sentience, adrift in a scarlet haze; hastening to bed once Eilian was tucked in, languishing in foreplay for endless, sensuous hours, waking each other not by suck or stroke, but by slow, sizzling penetration. Yet this was not of the savage desperation of the weeks before the Last Stand against the Shadow, but righteous, worshipful loving; bawdy in the comfortable sense, only intermittently giddy or rambunctious, oft the most exquisitely erotic experience either had ever known. A reverent emulsion of physical and spiritual love; molten, celestial, yet humble at heart, often no more showy that two lovers lingering on a caress. 

They were so primed for binding that it had been near torment to deny himself the joy of Elrohir’s company even for just a day, though in this they had conceded to tradition. He would have his One forever soon enough; indeed, by the plumes of smoke fluttering out of his chimney spout, he best surrender himself to his brothers’ exacting attentions soonest. Just as Elladan, Arwen, and Aragorn would aid Elrohir in his dressing, Luinaelin, Lithbrethil, and Lathron no doubt currently awaited him in the talan below. Eilian, he assumed, would be more than content to scurry between the two houses, tempting both sides with coyly reported tales of how comely the other was in his finery. While Elrohir would wear the formal tunic of a captain of the Imladrian guard, the colony had yet no official uniform, so his seamstress had improvised a garment rightful for the ceremony, yet not as garish as most lordly raiment inevitably was. Legolas disliked such ornament with an intensity that oft bordered on obsession. He wanted to be attractive to his beloved, for certes, but hardly felt the need to trumpet his position. Elrohir was binding with Legolas Thranduilion, child of the Sindar tribe and mercurial wood-elf by nature, not some forbidding title. Purely by happenstance was he also Lord of Ithilien. 

As this reminded him of his imminent binding, a streak of excitement blazed through him. Bidding a temporary farewell to his tittering wood, he skillfully descended to his bedchamber balcony, then crept back within his room. The sheets had already been changed to one of finer weave for the coming night, the embroidered coverlet seamlessly spread atop depicting a falcon ensnared in lively combat with a stag. He chuckled softly at this rendering, then was lured towards the water closet by crisp smell of Imladrian bath salts, no doubt liberally sprinkled in the tub. Steps before, he spied a firm-cushioned chaise longue from their common room, draped with towels, a tray of massage oils waiting to tenderize his tense muscles into mush. Yet this detail struck him as odd. His brothers were going to attend him in this manner? Twas hardly fitting! 

Just then, a jaunty tune skipped out of the bathing chamber, moments before one scantily-clad peredhel prince padded out into the room. A palpably adoring smile lit his features, when first he saw his love, as wind-tossed and spry as he was from his morning communion with the forest wilds. Before Legolas had a chance to protest this all-too-welcome intrusion, those velvet arms enveloped him, a sensual kiss was soon sipped and suckled from his suddenly willing lips. 

“They will think you very naughty, indeed, for betraying your oath of honor,” Legolas remarked, as his placid aqua eyes perused the starlit features he loved so well. 

“I care not,” Elrohir easily dismissed, then sought out his sultry mouth anew. Yet despite his pluck, he was conscious of the need to not embroil themselves too hotly, as he wished for their nightly revels to be fiery, fierce with repressed passion. He had come to indulge his beloved bodily, but not in coupling. He finished off his kiss with a whiplash of tongue, then spoke to the matter at hand. “Yet, alas, I have not come to bed you, melethen.” 

“Pity, that,” Legolas pouted, but this swiftly transformed into a smirk. “Why *have* you come?” 

“To pet and primp you, my beauty,” he grinned, rather wolfishly at that. “First, a long soak in a spiced bath, to supple your silky skin and to scrub that sunny hair. Then, a thorough massage – and not some loin-stirring grope, neither, but a true healer’s rubbing, to rouse the muscles, not the maleness.” 

“But my maleness does *so* long for a thorough rousing,” Legolas mock-whined, though still quite eager for the treatment his love had just described. 

“Which will be most fervently accomplished, fear not,” Elrohir promised. “Twill merely wait until after revels. Yet before, you will be dotingly anointed with the fragrance of your discerning selection. Then, to my great regret, I will abandon you to your brothers’ ministrations-“

“Raring as a springtime stud to scorch you with my spending, no doubt,” Legolas saucily embellished, to which Elrohir could do naught but wink demurely. 

“Save your lusty tongue for our binding night, melethron,” Elrohir advised him, with more temperance than he currently felt. “I swear to abuse it well.” 

Legolas purred deep in his throat, then exhaled a sigh of utter contentment. His beloved truly was the most thoughtful creature about. 

“Must I be the only one to benefit from such indulgence?” he asked, so gallantly that Elrohir could not help but be reminded all over again of the myriad reasons would later mix their bloods. “Your planning has been so shrewd, to say naught of the typically giving intent of your stealthy devising… may this marriage of like minds not begin on equal footing? With both partners doting upon each other awhile, this morn?” 

“I would love nothing more,” Elrohir whispered shyly, overcome anew by the thoroughness of the archer’s care. “None more than you, above and alone, my Legolas.” 

With that, they repaired to the bathing chamber, to gleefully commence their soaping and scouring.

* * *

Heat. Pure, eloquent heat surged within him, as if he’d been struck by a beam blast from Mithrandir’s wand. Gentle as the flow of the Bruinen over the pebble bridge that crossed its vastest basin, sure as the path of the Silmaril through the fathomless midnight climes of the sky, this nourishing heat fed every plump of muscle, every swathe of skin, every blunt of bone with its milky incandescence, nursed him as if from the breast of the Lady herself. His heart, the fleshy hearth that kindled the bright plume of his eternal soul, was radiant with rapture; with every pulse emanated rays of whitest gold, of silver and of gold fused into one, ethereal flame. 

Their kiss was like the first breath of his life. As if, until that transcendent moment, twas *he* who had been the shadow, the echo, the barren field, the desert bloom, the seed in scorched ground. Legolas was the rain, the rush, a torrent of cleansing sensation that, through the renown alchemy of mingling their bloods, of conflagrating their ephemeral spirits, would forever be his renewer. He tasted fresh, green as the splendorous woods that grew him; in the ardent press of his lips was the promise of Aman, of Elbereth, of the soaring heavens and of the sacred earth. Caught in the swoon of this celestial ecstasy, they were immortal. Immaculate.

They were one love, bound forevermore.

With quiet, cajoling words, Erestor eased them apart. Legolas’ eyes glowed with blistering adoration, with abject reverence for the beauteous mate before him. Elrohir was no less entranced by his golden one, dizzy with the fervor of the emotion swelling within. While the Loremaster intoned the final verses of the blessing, he solemnly unwound the lithe, gossamer cloth that had bound their slit hands together. As each successive revolution further loosed them from the other’s rapt possession, Elrohir suffered pricks, then lances, then sharp bites at his extremities. He fought to quell the shivers that seized through him as their hands were peeled apart. While Legolas’ palm was utterly pristine, his own was revealed to be encrusted with a vivid scar, though both were far too occupied by silent worship of their new bonded’s graces to remark this. 

Woozy, he moved to capture his husband’s lips anew, but was suddenly swarmed by well-wishers, slowly drawn into their effusive affections. Even as he grappled for the weakest twine with his archer’s lissome fingers, he was nearly mauled by their pets and strokes; their trilling voices like a symphony of shrieks to his sensitive ears. Every kiss stung like a slap, every clutch seemed to squeeze out another gush of that exquisite heat, until he felt sluggish, gauche, entirely sapped of the energy that had only seconds before flourished within him. When he felt his brother’s welcome arms weave around him, he lurched drunkenly against him, unable to keep his leaden head up straight, his limbs from going wobbly, elastic. His twin’s astonished gasp resounded through his senses like the raspy twang of a brass gong, the jangly tension reverberated through the crowd. 

They were wrenched aside by a charging wood-elf, his diamond eyes piercing in defiance of any scorn in the wake of his brash action. Even before those sultry arms enveloped him, his icy blood thawed to a constant, calming stream; Legolas’ warmth was so potent as to stir him from within. When at last he did sink back into the cradle of his doting embrace, he could not resist a soft purr to signal his pleasure to his beloved, who immediately began to smooth a securing touch down the length of his back. Clucking tongues debated about him, but he paid them no mind, not when coddled in such a downy berth. The world around was stark, strange to him now; he wanted only Legolas’ sweetness, and this forever. 

Yet he could not help but notice when his hand was proffered for their collective examination, though his husband was careful to keep their fingers twined. Legolas, no doubt, had instinctively felt the numbing chill that had overtaken them when apart, for he was now as vital to his beloved as the archer was to him. His mate would do anything in his power to protect him from the frosty world about, so utterly devoid of his intoxicating heat, which was, he dully noted, steadily rising within him. 

The urge to engage his one in the carnal play that would solder their bond unbreakable was steaming every inch of his skin scarlet, as if singed with a forge iron. He could suddenly map, with intimate accuracy, every sinuous curve of the sculpted frame pressed so hotly to him. His clothes were quickly becoming superfluous; his body embroiled in a primal fugue, craving its natural element. A shift of feral hips served to conceal his flared engorgement, though Legolas himself was no less aroused. Indeed, his husband had their members nearly locked together, so that every throb shot through both adamantly needful shafts. The white heat of their binding now poured like an unctuous stream of honey through his veins; the conflation of their eternal spirits had to be confirmed, and soonest, by the consummation of their physical beings.

The vacuous voices about appeared to concur. With a swiftness that spoke to his beloved’s own desire, he was whisked up the vertiginous stairs to their talan, then carried through the maze of rooms to the sanctuary of their bedchamber. No sooner had they breached the entranceway that Legolas’ face was sucking gaudy culls from his neck, his fingers fumbling to release him from his cloying raiment when not rakishly fondling him. Not a word was spoken as they bared themselves, their mewls, bleats, and groans the only suitable exchange between those already bound by soulful communion. The silken stroke of skin on baking skin nearly maddened him into a heady oblivion, as they stretched themselves across the coverlet. They fought rather voraciously for the chance to ravish each other, tongues battling for smoldering supremacy when they kissed, bodies tumbling about in their giddy tussle for dominance, aching loins ground raw in the frantic struggle to complete themselves. 

The emphatic resurgence of his lucidity made this love-play quite thrilling for Elrohir, the staving off of their supreme union now a delight, rather than the earlier torment. Yet the instant Legolas’ breathless pants became throat-chafing grunts of frustration, he gladly gave in, for he desired only the sheerest joy imaginable for this, the most vital act of their binding rite. 

He was summarily pounced upon; the slope of his neck purpled by a rabid mouth, his nipples fiendishly taunted, his groin worked into a furious erection, upon which the most glorious creature he had ever called his own unceremoniously impaled himself. They both cried out, not from pain but in blissful exultation, in humbling gratitude for the blessing of their love. Through the mirrored portals of their eyes was their single, effulgent soul reflected; for a pregnant moment, they did naught but gaze, in innocent, stunned adoration, at the burgeoning beauty that was their forever mate. A razing heat, white and gold, pure and honeyed, elegiac and erotic, blazed mercilessly through them, until the only respite was to ride out their pleasure, thrust into the blinding thrall of ecstasy. Once Elrohir was quite ferociously undone by his own completion, Legolas swiftly entrenched himself within him then pushed him to even greater heights, until they were both soaring, sobbing, brandishing troths righteous, honorable, and explicit as keenly as they wielded their broadswords. 

After they had collapsed into a sweaty muddle of laced limbs and of crimsoned cheeks, Elrohir was earnestly awed by how intimately he felt the tides of emotion shift within his beloved. His sense finally reawakened by the final forging of their bond, he was quite deeply affected by Legolas’ concern, even though this was quite fervently writ across his fair features. He did not, however, entirely comprehend why apprehension still lingered in his husband’s heart, when he must be attuned to the wondrous feeling of wholeness Elrohir was currently experiencing. Indeed, any and all remaining fears he may have harbored these last years were banished completely; there was only Legolas’ love within him, now inseparable from his own. Yet Legolas had wasted no time in catching up his hand and examining the palm for any remnants of their binding scar, of which there were thankfully none. While this did appease him some, he still was rather regretful, though what harm he thought he had done him in the course of such incredible loving Elrohir could not guess nor fathom. 

He rolled possessively atop him, relishing the velvet press of their bodies without as much as the ripple of their flame within. Their gingery arousals swelled anew, insatiable even in the aftermath of their culmination. Elladan had advised him that they would remain so for weeks yet, until their feeble hora became accustomed to the formidable fire of their melded fea. Twas thus unadvisable that newly bound elves should part for any great length of time in the month after the rite, as the frequent coupling of their bodies was not only healthy, but essential to their future happiness. Neither Elrohir nor Legolas had broached any objections to this aspect of the ritual; indeed, they had instead entrusted Eilian to Erestor and Lathron for the coming month and would depart in two days time for a cottage by the ocean, a gift from their great friend Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, who sent the key along with his regrets. 

Only then did it occur to Elrohir that they had not attended their own banquet feast, but proceeded straight to the consummation of the binding rite. As the reason for this was as confounding as Legolas’ inner tremors of remorse, he would inquire after it before sating his resurgent desire. Yet he could not resist a thick, teasing kiss beforehand, which he deemed would sufficiently ply his beloved’s oft deferral tongue. His caresses were so deft, he soon found himself pinned down to the coverlet once again, a wolfish wood-elf raking his predatory blue eyes quite lecherously over him as he pawed his thighs apart. 

“Mine,” Legolas purred, as his fingertips grazed up the slinky spread of his navel. 

“Yet how would you have what has ever been yours, bereth-nin?” Elrohir queried softly, his voice rich with insinuation. 

The endearment, however, struck the archer hard. Worshipful eyes soon beamed down upon him, glistening with inexpressible emotion. 

“Just as you are, moren vain,” Legolas whispered, overcome. Then, with an elfling’s candor, he visibly marveled at the realization of their long-awaited destiny. “We are *bound*, Elrohir. Forever! Never again will I be without my heart’s treasure, never again will I pine away through endless, lonely nights of despair.” 

“*Never*, my dearest one,” Elrohir vowed, his own protective streak fired by this reminder of how long his beloved had wanted their togetherness. “You have won me through the force of your care, through the valor of your relentless heart, melethron. All my endless years, I have wanted for naught but belonging, and here, in this home, in our family, in your heart I do belong, my Legolas. I have found my eternity, and he is as blithe and beauteous as the Lady herself.” 

“By Elbereth, I love you, my star-rider,” Legolas swore to him, the effluent flame within guiding him back into the care of his elf-knight’s sensuous embrace. “I love you so. *Need* you so…” 

Twas some time before sense dawned anew within their tipsy minds, but even they could not languish in wantonness the night long. There were, after all, guests awaiting them, though it hardly took a foreseer to divine that the banquet would be postponed until after twilight had descended, which allowed them a goodly while yet. Twould only mean that the elves of Ithilien would be all the more lubricious, which would give the couple and their familiars the soonest chance to slip away to their private revels. Elrohir already planned to sneak a hasty suckling in the woodland hollows whence between camps, as he was sure neither of them would be able to hold out until after midnight, when they could finally be entirely alone. 

At present, he was too preoccupied by his own slow, sizzling penetration to plot so much as a writhe of his hips; thankfully, they were possessed by a wilding will of their own. Their subsequent completion was even more ravaging than the first, though he had only to laze back onto Legolas’ slick chest to truly languish in their rapture. They were soon cuddled up against the backboard, kissing sloppily, chuckling softly at their own flirty gropes. Yet already their tireless loins were raring for more, waiting out their cranky muscles’ too necessary respite. Legolas was far more cheery than before, ruddy from their loving and eager to enjoy further carnal exploits. 

“Tell me, bereth-nin, do you recall the famed Iluvanargroth?” Legolas smirked mischievously, between licks and laps at his plush lips. 

“Dare I forget it?” Elrohir answered, fiendishly anticipating the request that would most certainly come next. “Twas the coup of my adolescence, introducing you to the sensuous images within, and indeed the catalyst to some of our most orgiastic coupling sessions, as I only too well recall.” 

“Yet can your hazy mind recapture the image depicted by the roaring cascades?” Legolas inquired, blushing as ever he did when mentioning the book. “The one towards the back of the tome?” 

“Explicitly,” Elrohir assured him. “May I be charged with pleasuring you thus? Twill be a tremendous experience for us both, I assure you.” 

“*Saes*, melethron,” he moaned, unable to longer contain his desire. “Have me so.” 

He shifted to better accommodate his lover’s eventual mounting, but Elrohir stayed him. 

“Rest awhile, sweet one,” he instructed. “I would inquire after a concern of mine.” Legolas’ brow furrowed, for he did not like his husband to ever be burdened by whatever concern, then he compassionately attended him. “I regret to say that I do not remember the events rightly following our binding with any form of clarity. Indeed, I am rather confused – though infinitely pleased by the result - as to why we proceeded directly to our bedchamber, when we had planned to only couple after revels?” 

Legolas sighed softly; the memory evidently did not sit well with him. 

“Tis simple enough, heart of mine,” he quietly explained. “As soon as our slit hands were unlaced, you proved reluctant to pull away from me, even though the ceremony had ended and, traditionally, the bound couple then received the acclaim of their guests. When you kissed me so ardently, clung to me so, I knew there was something amiss, but Erestor parted us and our familiars descended upon us.” 

“Yet I felt chill,” Elrohir confirmed. “Out of sorts. Twas not natural to me to be apart from you. I grew woozy, felt as if drunk.” 

“So it appeared,” Legolas conceded, the remorse vividly expressed upon his comely face. “I tried to graciously return to you, but my brothers grew rather doting in their affections. Then I sensed your weakening within, and when I looked, I saw that Elladan was supporting you entirely. I fought through the crowd and quickly enveloped you in my arms, which seemed to temper you some. Arwen held Eilian near, as well, but he seemed to understand your distress, somehow. He let me care for you, whilst I let Erestor examine your hand, which had not healed as it should have. Glorfindel suggested that your energies had not yet been truly restored, even in the furor of our last weeks of loving. That your flame was still somewhat dim and, as such, could not withstand the strain of delaying the completion of our binding. That, in old times, couples proceeded straight to the consummation of their bond, and that he had seen enough of these ceremonies to conclude that this would remedy you. That your spirit only wished for our wholeness, and would not stand for anything less. I suddenly felt the surge of your desires, concomitant with my own, and I knew the rightness of this solution. So, with a few swift apologies, I brought you home. In truth, I am rather glad we were forced to escape here. The loving has been absolutely exquisite, and as a result of vetting ourselves of our passion awhile, we will better enjoy both the revels and the company of our loved ones, I am certain.” 

“Well said, indeed,” Elrohir concluded, with a pensive smile. “Though I am hardly vetted enough of my rather bottomless passion for you, lovely one, to proceed to our banquet just yet.” 

He nipped quite saucily at Legolas’ bottom lip, then dragged him down the bed to pursue the loving he had so sweetly requested. 

Hours later, in the amber glow of the bonfire, they swayed to the languorous beat set by the drowsy minstrels, long absconded from their formal banquet, surrounded by familiars equally ensorcelled by the rumbling drums. If they wore naught but their velour breeches even in such close company, twas not for propriety’s sake, for certainly the others about were in even more scandalous states of undress. With a bushel of slumbering elflings piled up on a nearby tarp, including the ever-sprightly Eilian Elrohirion, the elders were free to celebrate the midsummer with the usual debauchery and decadence. None failed to utterly embrace the bawdy nature of the revels; indeed, the very air was imbued with the sultry spirit of the newly bound couple’s incendiary regard for one another. 

Elrohir and Legolas, however, were currently one of the more chaste couples around the bonfire, content, for the moment, to dance in a tightly wound embrace, stroking their beloved’s satiny skin and murmuring tender endearments. Twas the mannish couples that proved the most provocative, what with Eowyn performing a bewitching strip-tease around a thoroughly ensorcelled Faramir and Aragorn petting Arwen quite brazenly as they undulated to the tawdry rhythm. The royal couple were grateful for a chance to misbehave, for within this sanctuary of elves they bore far less scrutiny than even in the halls of their own Citadel. Luinaelin and Lithbrethil, along with their pretty wives, were also somewhat louche in decorum, eyeing their mates with unbridled lasciviousness whilst lounging in the tall grass of the glade. Lathron and Erestor had abandoned propriety altogether, embroiled as their were in a fevered coupling session in the dark underbrush of a nearby poplar tree. Elladan and Glorfindel were the only two to keep themselves remotely counseled, watching over the revelers with a keen eye to the newlywed couple’s protection. Elladan was particularly eager to see his twin peacefully bound, as such would even forgo a wild night with his own husband to act as guard over his brother’s happiness. 

Elrohir was only too appreciative of Elladan’s care, as it was sign that, even though they were both blissfully mated, their fraternal bond lived on. He cinched his hold on his new husband, felt his beloved moan alluringly into his neck. Legolas was growing restless. Now that their familiars were engaged in their own seductions, he was only too anxious to resume their most sensual loving. Indeed, it had been he, and not the elf-knight, who had been reluctant to leave their bed once the dusky sky descended. He had gone so far as to beg Elrohir back for one last coupling, prostrating himself before his husband in the most delectable pose of submission a lover could take on and groveling with such lurid groans that he had been even more utterly irresistible that usual. 

The woodland prince was presently purpling, if not outright violating, the diaphanous skin of his collar such that he may soon draw blood. Those nimble fingers, so deft in their wartime acuity, were mercilessly kneading his buttocks, as the proud, hungry shaft of his singularly virile Sindar male dug its moist, breech-covered head into the taut skin of his navel. After the downright scalding fuck the newly empowered peredhel had treated his mate to in the waning minutes of their earlier privacy, Legolas was no doubt famished for some sweet-wrecked revenge, in the scarlet form of his dear husband’s meticulous and licentious unraveling. Elrohir would be only too pleased to service him to the furthest limits of his own considerable talents; indeed, his tongue was growing rather heavy with need for the peerless inebriation brought on by a voluminous dose of his beloved’s creamy seed. A lengthy, elaborate suck would only stoke Legolas’ already immolating passions; his wood-elf could hardly be held responsible for the gloriously depraved result such felicitous actions might inspire. 

When Legolas finally did bite an extravagantly carnal kiss into his neck, Elrohir found he could wait no more upon his own undoing. With a wink to Elladan and a pinch to his mate’s slightly exposed bottom, he bade his familiars a silent farewell. He towed Legolas, who proved extremely loathe to disengage himself even a speck from his husband’s flush skin, into a clearing some paces away, which had been carefully prepared for both their comfort and their enchantment. Hung within the trees were the spooky rounds of glow-lamps, which only enhanced the spectral cast of the elusive moon above. The soft, springy lawn was strewn with rose petals, a pale blanket even more silken that Legolas’ ivory skin. Hidden under the draping branches of a willow dappled with fairy lights was a carafe of wine, two flutes, bottles of salve aplenty, as well as a ridiculously luxurious bounty of pillows. 

His bold husband was spellbound only long enough for an achingly earnest smile, prelude to a kiss so breathless it abolished all thought whatsoever. As he sank down to his knees, scattering a rosy trail of culls down the cut form of his warrior-beloved, he realized that their forever could not be better begun, with he both servant to his husband’s pleasure and the master of his greatest joys. 

They surrendered themselves to love, to their bonded’s most potent ministrations. 

* * *

Southern Vinyamar, Year 123, Fourth Age

The lush boughs of two long rows of elms shaded them from Anor’s fervent blaze. The fresh, fertile scent of the deep woods lured them further into its verdant density, into the thriving wild of this as yet uncharted swath of green an hour’s ride south of Vinyamar. Their stallions, thrilled by the challenge of such bracken-strewn paths, of such mulchy ground after the manicured roads of the royal city, clopped jauntily over fronds of high grass, knots of exposed roots, and excoriated trunks alike. The vital, ethereal trees sang in the lofty tones of the ancient innocents that they were, preserved from strife for endless millennia by the sage, conservatory elders of ages past. 

While Valinor had oft proved itself the staid, somnolent refuge of its poorly repute among the warrior elves of Arda, Legolas had nevertheless been rather awed by the richness of its natural spaces. Thankfully so, for their transition from seasoned, respected Lords in Arda to virtual outcasts in Aman had been a brutal one. Despite a heartful reunion with their dearly missed families and their rejuvenated naneth upon their arrival, Legolas and Elrohir had encountered as much resistance to their mixed-tribe union as welcome from their peers, which had hardly helped them find their footing in this beautiful, but haughty realm.

After nearly a year of suffering the most corrosive sorrow of his existence, a pain so excruciating that only the loss of his mate or his child might trump it, Legolas had thought he would find some measure of solace in the Blessed Realm. On the eve of their departure from the port at Ithilien, he had felt centered in his resolve to sail out to Elvenhome, ready to bury his most tormenting times in the blood-soaked soils of Arda, to lock his most treasured memories in the secret caverns of his heart, and to embrace a peaceful immortality with his beloved. The ardor of his bond to Elrohir and the constancy of their love had swayed him from grief at Aragorn’s passing on. He did not fully comprehend what reserves of strength his elf-knight had so selflessly mined in the face of his own sister’s fall to the fate of men, but he had proved himself a colossus of giving, gentling calm before Legolas’ fierce tempest of emotion. His devout husband had found a way to rouse him, to soothe him, to veer him towards the essential task of constructing them a vessel. Even amidst his desolation, Legolas could not help but marvel at Elrohir’s implacable perseverance, at the serenity with which he had accepted his sister’s death and at his dedication to the assurance of their future hardiness. 

Indeed, twas his voice that then broke through the trace of their leisurely ride, as they, in turn, cantered into a vast clearing of undulating terrain, a thatch of burnished mallorns at its center and a bubbly river weaving through the high grass to the east. The company gasped at the stunning splendor of the rural landscape, possibly the most perfect space they had yet seen in Aman. 

“There,” Elrohir indicated, though he hardly needed to point as they were rapt upon the vale. 

“Tis an exceptional green, melethron,” Legolas complimented, though his mate had only found the glade. 

“The mallorns are numerous enough to berth several talans,” Elrohir explained, by his slip of smile quite pleased with himself. “A common hall, other communal utilities, two more elaborate houses, and a few smaller apartments, for singletons. Elladan and Glorfindel have expressed their desire to build here, as well, if you are both amenable, to the site and to their company.” When his comments met with reverent silence, he babbled on instructionally. “Do you not similarly envision an orchard by the northern front, just beyond the river? Perhaps a garden in that small plain, towards the back? A bath could be fashioned by that rock formation; a stable in that tight enclave. If other warriors wished to form a colony, they could house themselves in the surrounding trees. There’s space enough for a dozen families, along with some servant’s quarters… You see the mountain in the distance? There are cascades. An easy ride down the southern path, if one was properly cleared…” He huffed impatiently, anxious for their opinion. “Berethen? Ioneth?” 

The wood-elves shared a wily, smirk glance, then hastened to relieve their elf-knight.

“Tis already an inspiration, my heart,” Legolas assured him, reaching out to stay his absently wringing hands.

“Tis marvelous altogether, Ada,” Eilian praised in turn, quickly dismounting to better explore the glade. “A welcoming place, to all who might have care to venture into the heart of the forest.” 

A heart’s adventuring was a common theme in their sprightly son’s conversation in recent weeks, as his own was currently, hesitantly wading into the perilous depths of his first love relation. Though he had enjoyed a few casual flirtations in Ithilien, among the maids with which he was reared, his most enrapturing love affair had been with the natural world, as its tender and as its keeper. Eilian had become a gardener of considerable talent, able to resurrect a scorched plant to flourishing verdure by considered, meticulous nurturing. While, as any young elf, he had his rambunctious moments, he was of an excessively contemplative deportment, a tireless yet jovial worker at whatever task he foist his rather focused attentions on. The few friends to which he was quite entirely devoted gave him no end of good-willed torment for his courteous and his thoughtful ways, yet they were equally protective of his gentleness, a quality for which they had suffered many bruises since landing on the shores of Aman. 

As he laced a warm, securing hold around his husband’s waist, they strolled out in the wake of Eilian, who was already devising how to best utilize the considerable space allowed him. Elrohir halted their progress a moment to indulge in a plush, suckling kiss, conscious as only one so doting as he could be of the shifting tides of feeling within his eternal bonded. 

Yet Legolas could not help but re-experience the bewilderment, the agonizing confusion of those first days following their advent in this Blessed Realm even as he recalled them. Once the excitement of being reunited with their families had worn off, Elrohir and Legolas had discovered themselves in a land oft inhospitable to those deemed of inferior elven breeds. Even Elrond himself was rather tenaciously respected among the Noldor royals, his own compound established at a considerable distance from the aristocracy of the other tribes. Elrohir and Elladan were, at times, even more accepted than their Adar, as they were also the progeny of a Dorian line, their makeup mostly elven. As for Legolas, he was the grandchild of an upstart branded more Silvan than Sindar. Among Noldo circles, he was the lesser of the match; among Sinda, twas a close call between his husband and himself. They had attempted to ingratiate themselves into the prime of elven society, petitioning the High King for a seat in the Council and displaying kindness even to those who sneered at their chaste affections. They recognized that he only way to carve a place in this land was to be of service to its people; though they felt most at ease among former soldiers from the Great War, they strived to plead the causes particular to these new arrivals in the halls of elder folk, of nobles from every tribe. Along with Glorfindel and Erestor, they championed the unity of tribes they had known in Arda, a hard swallow for those so accustomed to their petty prejudices. 

This acclimation period had been fraught for a couple so recently enfeebled by woeful grief, the subsequent struggle for recognition one of the most arduous of their lives. Without even the comfort of their own home to shelter them, the only sanctuary they had was their togetherness; the desire that warmed them through bleak, tearful nights of restlessness, the bond that nourished them even when apart, the love that kept them striving for a silver-lined future. Legolas could only too keenly recall so many stark nights of sorrow, huddled fiercely tight in their guest bed, when it seemed Elrohir’s crushing embrace and the tireless press of kisses to his crown were the only factors keeping him from some unconscionable savagery against one purportedly of his own tribe. Twas little wonder the family was so eager to stake out a territory of their own, to build themselves a home away from the lofty, pompous elves of the royal city. 

Their attacks upon Eilian, as well as the other peredhil foundlings, had been particularly cruel. Yet while the orphans, en masse, had developed into a rather upstart bunch, well able to defend themselves with the grace of their guardian Erestor and, if needed, the mettle of their mentor Glorfindel, Eilian had defined himself as quite emphatically of the tranquil elven race for far too long to be able to stomach their abuses. By nature, as mentioned, rather demure, if not pensive to a fault, he could hardly leave his grandfather’s house unaccompanied, else he was sure to return with face too soberly drawn and eyes brimming with pride-kept tears. He had weathered this time no better than his two dear Adar, spending days self-quarantined in his chambers, sulking about the shadowy stalls of the library, or camped out in the furthest reaches of Elrond’s gardens. When his tight circle of friends did manage to pry him out for a stroll by the sea or a night in a soldier’s tavern, their amusement would be achingly short-lived, as the more strident among them would only end up defending their friend’s honor to some surly pureblood. The lot of them were becoming so bullied when about the town that Eilian had even contemplated a return to Arda, which had set Elrohir’s dormant parental pyres ablaze with warning. 

Even if the day of reckoning came tomorrow and the world around them folded into the ephemeral flow of time, Legolas would never, even as a lithe spirit, forget Elrohir’s subsequent petition to the High Council. Given in one of their open forums, his speech had been electrifying. A sterling, starlit effigy beneath the flattering morning sun, Elrohir had been an elf in full possession of his considerable diplomatic powers, relating the tale of their lives under the veil of imminent war, the exhausting battle itself, their gathering of the foundlings and Eilian’s rescue in particular with such stirring passion, such mellifluous eloquence, that by his conclusion the entire crowd was at his feet. Legolas had never been so proud, so worshipful of his mate’s gifts, as indeed the scarlet night they had enjoyed after revels bore out. While this move had not gained everyone’s acceptance, the threats and the pressures upon the foundlings did lessen, as even a scathing remark was considered impolitic from one of noble birth. Some more revolutionary minded aristocrats even invited the foundlings to social gatherings, which was where Eilian first encountered the feisty force that was his Lady Sirenae, of the House of Celebrimbor. 

To say that he encountered her was perhaps a mite disingenuous, as she, upon sudden sight of him, was instantly resolved to befriend him, and despite the rather snotty reservations of her elders sisters, forced an introduction through a mutual acquaintance. When first she laid eyes upon him, he had been admiring a bouquet of peonies that she herself had arranged; rapturously drinking in their gaudy scent, flattering the blooms with his fingertips, and chatting to her naneth about their beauty. She had been rather taken with his own, as well as the thoroughness of his knowledge of flora. Eilian was, at first, rather unmoored by her lively nature, bashful and awkward in her presence. Yet Sirenae was nothing if not persistent. She asked him to dance so oft and so sweetly that one of his discerning temper could do naught but agree, eventually. She insinuated herself into his foundling set, the lot of them gallivanting about the town with him in reluctant tow. She found a hundred reasons to drop by Elrond’s compound for a visit, from a delivery of fresh fish flirted away from the seafarers to the announcement of some coming festival to the Lady Celebrian, a distant relation. Each time, she did not neglect to take a turn in the gardens, where Eilian could inevitably be found puttering about. This had engendered their friendship, but twas apparent to all that both of the young ones were slowly creeping towards something more intense. Though twas quite a chore to pry even the sparest hint of repressed feeling out of him, Eilian was otherwise quite effusive in his praise of her, expounding on each of her qualities more extensively than Legolas or Elrohir had ever heard him speak on any subject, even trees. Elrohir believed her an ellyth fashioned in Arwen’s image: insatiably curious, abundantly giving, and incorrigibly impetuous. As such, he deemed her the perfect match for their humble young gallant, already dreaming of elflings gambling about their father’s resplendent gardens. 

While Legolas was slightly more realistic in his expectations, judging that it would require several centuries of inching together for the young couple to come close to even admitting their feelings, let alone daring to express them physically, he was more than heartened by Eilian’s befriending of the maid, as valuable an alliance as she was cherished as a companion. Indeed, twas terribly dear to observe them together, struggling to maintain what they saw as the proper distance, blushing fiercely at even the most accidental contact, whispering about the treetops so as not to disturb a flock of birds nested there, or examining a new species of flora for its unique details. They complimented each other rather well, in his esteem, Sirenae ever challenging Eilian to expand his horizons and Eilian ever encouraging Sirenae to look more closely at even the most casual elements of nature. He was certain they would tumble upon each other eventually, perhaps even sooner than he gave them credit for. He certainly hoped that Eilian would know a love as pure and true as the one he held for Elrohir; their son deserves as much, and much more than that. 

Besides, he himself had not given up hope that they might rear another elfling or two. The coastal towns were rampant with rumors – given little credence in the lofty royal city – that male couples that had proved their valor and their worthiness to the Valar had been gifted a child of their mingled seed, if one was wishes for with sufficient fervor. The handmaid of Elbereth herself would descend from Tanitequil, cast a spell over the lovers, and departed for those vaulted climes, then a year later she would bring them back a babe. Though he had yet to broach the subject with Elrohir, he was already rather enamored with the notion, nearly as enamored as he was of his beauteous mate. 

As they strolled into the heart of the mallorns, he felt a peacefulness overcome him. The trees beckoned him into their boughs, summoned his immortal soul to be their guardian. This was the place, would be their home. Elrohir had sensed it as keenly as any wood-elf, tribute to the influence of his two beloved ones. One massive trunk, the color of well pummeled copper, called them to its mossy base. The life-force thriving within the ancient tree was so intense that Legolas was nearly dizzied by its vital course within him; with Elrohir curled against him, the effect was double fold. He leaned back against the rough bark, as Elrohir gazed lovingly upon him, reverent as ever on the fair face of his forever mate. The overture came easily, his kiss as intoxicating as ever. The echo of a distant splash told them Eilian was enjoying a refreshing swim in the river after their long ride, leagues from where they now lay, bare to the wilds, in the thrall of their primal element. 

When their bodies mated into one effluent, rapturous whole, Legolas looked past the adoring silver eyes of his beloved, into the trees, up to the skies. He thought of their own ardent youth, of their rush to seize hold of each other, of how foolishly they’d erred in letting go. He still vividly recalled the race to Imladris with his dying brother, the succor and the coupling that came after, the promise of love abandoned in favor of a hollow glory. The ghost of his friend he’d rediscovered in the swamps of Mirkwood, teeming with sorrow. Those rabid nights before the war, when only the scorch of the other’s skin could soothe their raging fears. His desperation to solidify their relationship in those first, fragile days of peace, the trials and the hurt that came after, then the slow rekindling of their affections, which was such an uncertain time for him. The foundation and the construction of his colony, of their first home, which would be bettered in this latest design. Their heartfelt reunion and the balming fire of his love, returned at last. Rearing Eilian through their long years of togetherness, through triumphs and trials, but ever in love. How they had fought for their freedom, their bliss, and their forever with every breath, how they would now reap what they had so longly sown, earned through such strife as would have sundered most couples. 

He took in the most cherished sight of his long millennia of life, his star-rider gazing adoringly upon him; his treasure, his sanctuary, his heart’s love. 

Their spirits soared, blissful, immaculate, into their golden eternity. 

 

Finis


End file.
